Divisive
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Gotham's greatest villains are conspiring against the very system that incarcerated them in the first place. But with competing interests, ulterior motives stand revealed. And Harvey Dent may be the only thing between survival and chaos.
1. What Time?

**January 1.**

**Arkham Asylum.**

_The Riddler's Journal January 1st_

I'm honestly surprised Dr. Nybakken's seen fit to give me writing utensils. He's unlike the other doctors here. He seems to have our welfare at the top of his priorities. He was always the smart one.

It's going to be a sad day when he dies.

Pondering, as I'm oft to do…

What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence…?

A riddle. An enigma wrapped inside a clue, trussed up in a Chinese Box.

No clear answer. Like so many other things in this world, no clear answer.

They would have us stay here for eternity if they had their way—and they certainly do. With their money and their riches, Gotham's elite keep us shackled behind tempered glass doors and steel bars, hoping drab clothing and terrible food will rehabilitate us.

When they lie through their teeth to us. One would think they don't know us anymore. We invented trickery—we're its masters—and we know when it's being used against us.

They don't want to help us. Not Mayor Hill, not Gordon…least of all, Wayne. Their favorite son. With all his riches and his opportunity, he refuses to actually help us.

Maybe I've been listening to the Joker for too long. He's becoming socialistic. He's been interned here for the longest ever: 3 months. In that time, Nybakken's allowed him access to the library in the basement, and he's taken a liking to Engels and Marx.

Idiot.

I would've figured him for an anarchist. Destroy first, ask questions later. Then again I've been wrong before; I would've figured Dent for an emotional cretin and Isley for a moron. Underestimating them. Overestimating myself.

A common trait of mine.

But Joker…he's actually displaying cognitive function, remarkable beast that he is. He's been trying to foment an uprising among the inmates for some time under an umbrella reason he won't divulge. I don't think he quite understands what he's getting into.

I don't quite think he understands why we're agreeing to it.

On Washington's Birthday, we're going to blow the doors of this prison wide open. Pamela will lead the crazies off the island. The bridges on all three sides of the island will blow, courtesy of explosives the Joker planted years ago. Crane will use the D'Angelo plant to disperse his toxins. They'll keep out…everyone we don't want.

And Dent…hasn't said what he's doing yet.

Me, I've got a different problem.

I've got a Batman to vex.

* * *

**January 3.**

**Harvey Dent, in therapy **

"We've tried altering probability, Harvey."

"Failed," he says.

"With varying success." Nybakken's correction rings insulting in Dent's ear. A shade childish.

_You know, Harvey, she used to put you down like that, too._

Who?

_Gilda._

Shut up.

"You rejected the dice, even the Yahtzee set. We're trying to increase probability here, Harvey. Life needn't be as complicated a good heads or bad heads. That's why we tried the dominoes, remember?"

"You can't alter reality, Doc," Dent insists. "Not mine."

Nybakken reclines in the chair and taps his pen on his clipboard. One of Dent's hands tightens into a fist. Nybakken's eyes narrow and he keeps at it. Three minutes pass. Dent's other hand taps the armrest nervously.

"Harvey?"

"Doc," he murmurs. "Would you…stop?"

Nybakken obliges. "You're getting better." And stands. "Whether you know it or not, whether you want to admit it or not."

"A cause, Doc?"

"Hard to tell," Nybakken says and removes his glasses. As he polishes them with a corner of his lab jacket, he speaks. "Maybe Harvey Dent is finally reasserting himself. Maybe you're tired of Two-Face. It's not entirely uncommon. Alternate personalities often come to the fore after periods of extended intense suppression. In your case, after so many years of dealing with Two-Face, Harvey Dent is finally reasserting himself, as incredible as that sounds."

"But?" Dent strokes one half of his chin—the human half—thoughtfully.

Nybakken gives a minor smile. "The only thing that's keeping Harvey Dent from a full recovery is the, ah…well, the physical evidence."

"It's not an accident," Dent says, almost growling. "A dead man hurled acid in my face. Intentionally. That supposed to sit well with me?"

"I understand that," Nybakken sympathized. "I'm only saying. You could be whole again. You needn't be so divided. Medical advances being what they are—"

"Stop," Dent said and ran a hand over what was left of his face. "Just…let it go, Doc."

"I understand," Nybakken says and pats Dent on the shoulder. "We'll continue this Friday. In the meantime, get some rest. You owe it to yourself."

Nybakken leaves.

Leaves Dent to his thoughts.

_He's wrong. And you're a fool for believing him_.

He's always wrong, as you've always said. You're as susceptible as I am. And you need new material.

_Not even close, Harvey. I'm stronger. Or have you forgotten why I came around in the first place?_

…No.

_No, and you won't. Your little inferiority complex is responsible for everything. I made you stronger, and where would you be without me?_

In the DA's office.

_You'd be dead. End of story._

_

* * *

_

**February 1.**

**The Batcave.**

**Underneath stately Wayne Manor.**

"You keep looking over those images; you're going to get a migraine."

"Already there." His jaw almost doesn't move. Of course, when he's got the cowl on, it's hard to tell what he's doing. I can't even see his eyes for Pete's sake. "And repetition reinforces knowledge, Tim."

"Now you sound like my old headmaster," I say and rub my chin, faking thoughtfulness. "Seriously, though." I sit on the armrest of his chair and join him staring. "What are you looking for? Magic bullet? I know a guy in Hub City who could fix you up."

For the past hour and a half, Bruce has been staring at footage taken from a security camera at Jenkins Jewelers. It shows so clearly the Penguin strolling into the place, twirling his umbrella and enjoying a spot o' tea while his linebacker henchfolk crack wise with the safe.

"It doesn't make sense," Bruce says, as he has for the past 90 minutes.

"Sure it does. Oswald's out of tea money; he wants more."

"The hired help," he says thickly.

Silence. He's waiting for me to answer. I think…

"He's ripped off four banks in the Diamond District in the past month alone," Bruce answers his own question. As he does he reclines in the chair. I stand and start pacing. "Maybe he really is strapped for cash."

"Maybe he's getting smarter," I interject. "But where's the mystery there?"

"The henchmen don't have his particular motif, Tim. Look at them. Black turtlenecks, domino masks. And they all look like football players."

"Since when did physiology determine employment?"

"Bottom line, these aren't his men."

My brow furrows. I look at Bruce, at the display on the screen, and back at Bruce.

"Whose are they?"

* * *

**Blackgate Penitentiary.**

**Commissioner James Gordon.**

I usually don't do this. I usually leave things like this to Bullock or better, Montoya. They at least have a mind for interrogations. Me, I've got a different problem. I've been behind a desk for too damn long. Whatever skills I had at getting people to talk went out the window when I took over this job from a corrupt bureaucrat.

I'm a police commissioner. Not one of those bad cops. Not Flass, not Branden.

I'm also not Harvey Bullock.

"Jim?"

I turn around and see Montoya standing a few feet away from me. She's in full riot gear—strictly precaution, and an idea Arkham should adopt—and her hair sticks out, messy, from the edges of the helmet and the upturned Plexiglas.

"Is he ready in there?"

"Even if he's not, you're going in." We both smile and start walking don the hall. The interrogation room is only known here by a single grey door hiding a small grey room with a chair and a table.

And sitting at that table, in standard issue prison grays: Oswald Cobblepot.

I let Renee go in first—she picks a spot at the back of the room—and I close the door behind me. I start talking as I sit. And Cobblepot's locked a dead and hateful stare on me.

"So what was it, Oswald? What's so important that they had to call me down from Central to do this?"

"Verily," he says and cocks his head. "Your talent could be put to better use elsewhere, my fine friend. Why waste your time on me, a mere stoolpigeon?"

"If you're such a stoolpigeon, then maybe you'll tell me what I want to know, and I won't have to get difficult. Sound good to you?"

"You hardly frighten me, James. Try your routine elsewhere."

"Renee," I say and look past Cobblepot. Renee's already got her nightstick locked in one hand. A moment later, she's holding it around his neck in a minor choke.

"Now," I say quietly. "I'm no killer, so you get to live. But I am a damn good cop. And if you won't give me what I want I'll extract it from you forcefully. Or she will."

"Bosh," he croaks. "Flimshaw. What would the liberties union say?"

"You're a convicted felon," I fire back. "Hardly a poster child. So tell me, Oswald. You stick to banks now or is this just a stepping stone? You don't even use you own men to do it."

"I hope for your sake, there's a point to this."

Renee tightens her grip.

"I want to know," I grit. "Whose men they were. They're not talking—we've had them under the gun for the last few hours. I want to know what you know, Oswald."

"You…you won't find me the talkative sort."

Before I get a word in, a deeper voice speaks from behind me.

"You'll speak to me."

I turn around in the chair and Batman steps out of the shadows, doing spooky—as he usually does. I stand and straighten my jacket. Motion to Renee to let up her chokehold on Cobblepot.

"You…" I give Batman a quizzical look. "Never mind." Of course he can handle it. He can always handle it.

Renee pats my shoulder. As we leave, Batman shuts the door behind us. Halfway down the hall, I pull out my cellular and punch in a sequence of numbers.

"Good evening, City Hall."

I hesitate for a moment. "Uh, Mayor Krol's office please."

The operator takes a minute to connect me. After a minute of Muzak playing over the line, Armand Krol coughs into the receiver and says hello in a gruff tenor.

"Your Honor, this is Jim Gordon at Blackgate—"

"Jim, what in God's name are you doing there? Don't tell me they've got you playing bad cop now. You're not the type."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say and rub one of my temples. "New job, same old crap."

"Can't argue with that—"

I don't hear what he says next, because the door to the interrogation room explodes outward. The force of the kick is so great that when the door lands it skids for an extra foot or three. A moment later, Cobblepot's fat-ass rolls across the floor too.

Batman follows that, his steps falling even on the tiled floor.

"Uhm…"

"Is that Krol?" he asks.

"Yes," I say and he yanks the phone right out of my hand.

"Krol," he rasps into the receiver.

"Jim?"

"No."

"…Batman?"

"Get me Jeremiah Arkham. Now."

"Well," Krol pries. "I don't think I can just run to Arkham and tell him to open the doors. It's a place of business; he can run it how he wants—"

"It's a state hospital." Batman bears his teeth as he speaks. He's getting agitated. His grip tightens and the plastic casing on my cellular starts to buckle under the pressure. "I need to see Jeremiah Arkham—now. I'm not going to let you stand in the way of my investigation."

"Listen, Batman, if you think you can push me around you've got another thing coming! I'm the Mayor! And you're nothing at all."

"Get me Arkham or I'll tear down his prison brick by brick if I have to. Understood?"

Silence.

"Understood?" Batman repeats.

"Fine," Krol concedes. "I'll have my people call him."

Batman hands the phone back to me. I close the connection.

"What did Cobblepot tell you?"

"He's privy to something major, though he wouldn't say what. All he gave me were names. Joker, Dent and Crane."

I glance at Cobblepot, and back at Batman.

"Odd. As to why those three would conspire. And why would they leave him out?"

"He's no murderer. That sets him apart. Apparently." Batman turns to leave, his cape billowing and flowing behind him. I fall in step, trying to keep up with his swift gait. "If I were you, though, I'd keep him under lock and key. The Rogues may not want his help but he could be a useful tool just the same."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	2. Confrontation

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The office of Dr. Jeremiah Arkham.**

This is what its like to be you, Jeremiah. The unfortunate, willing heir of a name and a legacy that…doesn't have much going for it.

Your grandfather, Amadeus: the one who started it all, with a personal administration of justice for killing his wife and child. It set Amadeus on a path your inmates have worn well the past few years.

You're just as bad as Amadeus. Sins of the father and all that. Or grandfather…as the case may be.

And you haven't slept in days. Or months, really. That explains the haggard appearance—and it's not like Batman really notices or cares, anyway, right? You're certainly not looking for a date, are you?

No. Too busy running the nuthouse.

"Arkham."

You let the word hang in the air for a moment, thinking he's just saying the name of the place. Then you figure out he's talking to you.

"Oh, uh, yes?"

He slams an open palm on the desk. For a moment you imagine you can see the veins underneath his glove, and the scarlet liquid flowing through them.

He must be a fascinating character under that mask, you think. You're probably right. Why else would he wear it? Who else would wear it? Stupid question, you correct yourself. Arkham, you fool, you used to think Harvey Dent was the Batman. Up until Maroni threw acid in his face.

"You have information I want," Batman says again. His voice sounds positively grave. And you're still thinking of ways to get inside his head like a surgeon of the conscience. He must be terribly fascinating. "The Penguin didn't use his own men to rip off the jeweler."

"Yes I know."

Liar.

"He used the Riddler's."

"Nigma?" You feign surprise. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"No one knows," Batman says. He withdraws his hand and lets it slide beneath the sleekness of his cape, draped absolutely motionless around his shoulders. "Except you."

Oh Batman, you fool.

"I know what I can, Batman. The inmates are in my charge. If I pick up a thing here or there, that's no business of yours."

"Lives are at stake. Nigma got word to his men from inside your walls. How? Why?"

Another dead stare.

"Let me ask you this, Batman. Have you ever actually listened to anyone's problems?"

"They're criminals. That's problem enough for me."

You recline in your chair and stroke your chin. "And yet you come here asking me for information you should already know. Since when do you ask me for anything, aside from tighter security? Hmm?"

"You don't want me to get difficult, Arkham. Your inmates are planning something huge, in the very near future. I believe you have knowledge of it. More than I do, anyway."

"All you have," you say. "Are names, Batman, and the hope that you'll develop a case. But you don't have anything, and I think you know it. And I think that scares you."

Even through the cowl, you see his eyes narrow.

"It's confidentiality, then." He says it slowly, holding back his anger or playing calm. Not really sure which.

You nod slowly, demurely, and grin like a Cheshire cat.

"The usual suspects," Batman says. "Joker, Nigma, Crane…Dent." He hesitated saying Dent's name. That's odd. You make a note of it. "They're all planning something. You know what it is."

"I might," you say, going suddenly hostile. "And I've said I'll do what is right, Batman. You may think you run this city, but you don't. You're just a…a street-sweeper, wiping up the dirt and the muck to give the illusion of cleanliness. And you certainly don't run **my** asylum!"

He turns to leave. You've successfully routed him.

"What is it about Harvey Dent, Batman?" you call after him. "Why did you hesitate? Is he close to you? Does he share his secrets?"

Batman doesn't even look back.

And you, Jeremiah, you're far too immersed with me to let go now.

You lean back in your chair and rub your temples. And you tell me to come out.

The walk-in closet a meter away from your desk slides open, and there I am. Watching you openly.

"He knows too much," I say and the burlap rustles.

And you sigh, as you always have. Sigh and overlook the obvious.

* * *

**The Batmobile.**

**En route back to Wayne Manor.**

"That went well," I say lightly and raise an eyebrow.

"Penguin knows too much to not be involved. He's in prison now, but he won't stay there. They'll bust him out, sooner or later."

"You…didn't bother to tell Gordon that?" I ask. Fair question.

"No," he says. "Believe it or not, I didn't want to scare him. The city can barely handle things as they are now, let alone what would happen if it had a riot on its hands."

I manage a snicker. "You wanted to scare him, you could've pulled a gun on him."

The car slows down. My eyes dart around for a moment, and Bruce stares at me with the empty white eyes of his cowl. His mouth is a minor scowl.

"Oh." I've caught my mistake. I turn away sheepishly. "Sorry…"

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**Edward Nigma and Dr. Jonathan Crane.**

"How did it go?"

"The benefits of an odorless and invisible gas are myriad, Edward. Arkham was loopy to begin with—he'll get worse. And Batman…"

"You can stop calling him that, Crane," Nigma says irritably. "I don't care what he dresses up like. He's just a man—a rich and particularly foppish man, but a man even so. And that means he's no better than any of us."

"If you're right, Edward," Crane points a skeletal finger, "and he is who you say he is…I won't have any trouble."

* * *

**Wayne Manor.**

**Dinner.**

"Cold."  
Alfred rolls his eyes as Bruce says it. "It's Gazpacho, Master Bruce. Its intended form is cold."

"Not talking about the soup, Alfred," Bruce says and turns his spoon through the soup. Then he looks up at Alfred, hovering someplace over his left shoulder. "Leave us for a minute?"

Alfred raises a quick and puzzled eyebrow, then turns and leaves.

And me, sitting miles away at the far end of the dinner table, I can't really figure out why. When has he ever sent Alfred away?

Something's not right about this…

"How is dinner, Tim?"

"It's good…real good. Even the soup."

"Good," he says, and cuts into the brisket. Five minutes pass. Five particularly awkward minutes.

Finally: "You want to talk about something, Bruce?"

"No." He's almost done with the brisket.

"Well," I pry. "That's interesting. You haven't been this quiet since…well, I'm not quite sure."

"What's your point?" he asks, looking up from what's left of his dinner. He's shooting me a look of death—I can tell by the downturned eyebrows, even from this distance. But form this distance, a look of death doesn't quite work.

I pause and set the fork down.

"Look, I'm sorry about the gun thing in the car. I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know you didn't."

My posture stiffens. Well, gee Bruce, nice of you to be considerate.

"You want to talk about me being cold? Let's talk about you not saying a damn word since we got back from the Asylum, huh? I dunno what the whackos did to you while you told me to wait in the car, but it must've been huge."

"You disapprove of the way I handled Cobblepot's interrogation."

Interesting question. Holy left field, Batman.

"I…suppose that's true."

"Then you can take the case," he says, flashing me another look of death. He stands and picks up his plate. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

And he's gone. Leaving me to the cavernous dining room, alone with my very puzzled self.

"…Okay…"

* * *

**February 14.**

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The Basement Library **

Dent's light is interrupted by a dark shape over his shoulder. A dark shape, accompanied by the rancid smell of too much cologne and the hot stench of a permanent smile.

The Joker. One and only.

"Whatcha readin, Harv? _My Pet Goat_?"  
"_The Undiscovered Self_," Dent corrects. He's annoyed, as usually happens when the clown comes around. "Carl Jung. Familiar?"

Joker touches a finger to his chin and taps it thrice. Then he channels Elmer Fudd. "Erm…nope nope nope. Can't say I have. Any pictures in this book?"

"Not that kind of book," Dent says. He reclines in his chair. As he does he elbows Joker just above his testicles. The clown, after an unexpected exhalation of air, gets the hint and backs away a foot. "Don't you have a Communist to read?"

"Nah," Joker waves his hand, almost drunkenly. "I'm just not that into him. Now I'm into funky fruit hats. You want one?"

"No." Dent keeps reading. Doesn't even dignify Joker with eye contact.

"Well!" Joker exclaims. "Sor-ry. Be that way, okay? See if I care!"

"Are you done?"

Joker grits his teeth and grumbles under his breath. "Yeah…jerk."

* * *

**Wayne Manor.**

**Dr. Crane**

Ding-dong.

Three seconds later, almost too good to be clockwork even, the butler answers the door.

He doesn't even get to say "Wayne Manor" before Crane plucks a straw from his hat. The butler goes down instantly, nodding off in mere seconds to dreamland. The benefits of an, ahem, laced fear gas.

* * *

**Upstairs **

After a rather refreshing shower, Bruce Wayne's usual acumen is a brief exercise, followed by an even briefer nap. When 11:30 arrives, he retires to his cave for an evening of quiet surveillance. If a problem arises, he's in the car and already on the way.

Yes, his response time is fast.

Not tonight, though.

That works in my favor.

He steps out the shower and stares at himself in the mirror. It's then that the magic starts to work. Lingering steam in the bathroom has no where to go until he opens the door—and he's far from doing that. He's too busy inspecting himself. Criticizing himself for not being all the Batman he can be.

_Look at you, Wayne. You're a wreck. You're 38 years old and you dress up in a Halloween costume every night to beat up bank robbers and vagrants._

_You're tired._

Yes, his expression says, and I can even hear him through the mirror. It's not so much lucky for me that he has strange open spaces in his house. It's rather fortunate that there's a crawlspace behind his wall-wide bedroom mirror. Chances are he uses it as a means of entrance to that cave of his.

_Tim can take care of things. You haven't heard a peep from the usual suspects since before Christmas. You deserve a night off._

I made a promise…

_To hell with promises. They're overrated. Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead? Hardly. Rest now, work later. Live today, fight tomorrow._

His brow furrows. He's starting to piece it together; the fog from the dosage I gave in Arkham's office is wearing off.

_Just a little birdie._

The mirror shatters; a fragmented panoply of pieces too small to perceive. Some larger, some smaller, each has its intended effect. They swirl for a millisecond, suspended in weightless apogee, before falling to the floor, slicing through hand and foot and skin as they do.

Wayne recoils, in fear—of all things—and can only manage to stare at me like some terrified child.

Scarecrow.

"I weep for you," I say, and the burlap mask rustles.

Wayne breathes heavy. He supports himself with one arm propped on the floor, the other making a paltry shield.

"I deeply sympathize."

I pluck a straw from my hat and give him another dosage. He goes limp, unconscious from the concentration.

"You have no idea how happy this will make Edward."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	3. Unmasked

**Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.**

Lying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, clutching his throat. Trying desperately to keep the blood in. Failing to stay alive.

His fingers grasp at the cold tile almost spastically. His nervous system is already going. Very soon, his eyesight and his brain functions will follow suit.

He grasps his throat again. It's hot and it stings. And…

And there's something in there. Something just as hot, just as painful. Between gasps he plucks it out. He attempts to wipe away some blood, but only smears it across the playing card's face.

A laminated Joker stares back at him and mocks him.

And then a shadow falls over Arkham's convulsing body. He manages to push his glasses up on his nose. The shadow belongs to the real Joker.

"Wrong card, Doc. Looks like you don't get to black the jack."

And Joker pulls a gun out of that garish purple jacket. Aims it.

And Joker kneels. Whispers in his ear.

"You're not your name, Jerry. You're not your family."

Presses the barrel against the top of Arkham's skull. Arkham's dying eyes roll back in their sockets, staring upside-down at Joker. Arkham's desperate for air now. The invading smell of the cordite doesn't help.

"Don't hurt him, clown," someone says.

The gun barrel atop Arkham's skull is suddenly nothing. His light starts to fade and all he can see is a man in a two-tone suit aiming a gun of his own at the Joker.

Arkham's dying ears hear the riot sirens go off, terrible and purposefully sonorous. Feel the floor he's laying on rumble with the compounded footsteps of unionized guards and unstable rioters.

The guards, Arkham tries to choke out, they don't get paid enough to deal with this. State…cutbacks.

Too bad, he imagines the Joker saying and shooting him anyway.

Arkham loses control of his bowels, a curtain call as it were, and then dreams that Harvey Dent is beating the Joker to his knees. Arkham wraps a hand over the bloody furrow in his neck, and closes his eyes.

The pain dies when he closes his eyes.

* * *

By the time Tim Drake discovers that Wayne is on his way back into Gotham city in the trunk of his very own Rolls Royce, it will be far too late. 

Crane taps his ear, through the burlap mask.

"Nigma?"

"The hoi polloi are occupying the administration. You have three minutes until detonation. I suggest you run a few red lights."

"Not necessary," Crane says. He amps the Rolls into fourth gear.

"Why is that?"

"I'm already on the island." Crane looms out the driver's window, and Arkham Asylum curls and reaches into the sky. Architecture's middle finger to God. "You can blow the bridges--"

* * *

The explosions are visible from the coast. Tremors travel along the earth, and as far away as City Hall and Central, people feel them. 

Armand Krol sees the explosion from his office and immediately calls Jim Gordon.

Jim Gordon sees the explosion from his office, and immediately calls Harvey Bullock.

And Jonathan Crane is on the tail-end of a shockwave. Nigma didn't waste any time pressing the button after he gave the confirmation. The Rolls was barely on terra firma before the Trigate Bridge exploded behind him.

And it's nothing short of a true explosion. The pillars at either end of the Trigate Bridge rumble and fade behind flashes of light and clouds of dust as the charges go off. A second later, the brick facades crumble. The suspension cables go limp and the center of the bridge sags and lists to one side. Automobiles on the bridge follow its worsening sag; some breaking through its guardrails and tumbling into the water, others merely hang precariously from an edge.

The bridge's integrity is too far gone. No through-traffic on either end—even the cars already on there, the ones not dangling or dead in the water, can't go anywhere. Like a house of cards, the bridge is already locked in its death throes. No one gets on, no one gets off.

The Wein and Nolan bridges—really just arms of Trigate—explode and sink into the river like clockwork. Five minutes later, the Schwartz bypass blows unceremoniously and follows suit.

The lights on Trigate wink off. On. Finally die.

The echo from the detonations echoes through the island and, Crane surmises, the streets. A million waspy shits in downtown Gotham just clutched their fur coats in fake outrage and said 'oh dear Christ.'

From Arkham Island and the city surrounding it, there's absolute silence.

From his cell window, Edward Nigma smiles. _They'll listen to us now._

From the front doors to the Asylum, gaping wide open, Harvey Dent rubs the Joker's blood from his face with the back of one hand, and reloads his pistol.

He's going to need it.

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The Operating Theater.**

The first thing Batman feels when he wakes is Harvey Dent's breath on his cheek. And then, the raspy voice of the former District Attorney.

He imagines he can still smell the rotting flesh in Dent's mouth, the scar tissue at the roof and tonsils, brought on by Maroni's acid. But it's just an illusion.

And the room is suddenly very cold to Batman's skin.

He feels a slow exhalation of air over his face. Dent is leaning over Batman, scant inches from his body, examining--or just staring--at the unmasked man strapped to the table.

"Is it really true?" he hears Dent say. "Can you really…be you? My great and worthy opponent?"

The room is cold, because Batman is not accustomed to feeling a chill air on his face. His face is usually covered by a Kevlar-reinforced cowl, a surprisingly lightweight affair that binds to the skin and denies it oxygenation.

"This is what you are," Dent whispers again. He's leaning close over Batman's body, as if he needs to be close enough to touch it. Close enough to see it, to believe it.

The body of a bat, and the head of a millionaire.

Dent's human eyebrow angles sharply. "Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to."

And the body of Bruce Wayne, in the shell of a bat-man, begins to stir. His lips open and round and try pointlessly to speak. He licks his lips, and his eyes flutter open—they adjust to the surgical lamps overlooking him, and they perceive the bifurcated shape of Harvey Dent.

Staring down at the face of Bruce Wayne with an expression between scientific curiosity and media snobbery.

"Bruce Wayne. Flesh and blood."

Batman groans, barely audible. "Hu…Harvey…?"

"Yes, Bats, it's me." As he speaks, Dent unties the leather straps holding Batman to the table.

"What…what am I doing here?"

"You were attacked by the Scarecrow in your home. He gassed you and brought you here, to the Asylum."

"Where's Robin?"

"You're asking the wrong guy," Dent says. He tucks one hand in one pocket and starts pacing. "All I can tell you is that every bridge off this island no longer exists. Anyone who wants to get in has to do it with a helicopter."

Batman's head falls back to the table. He's exasperated—still feeling the effects of Crane's gas. "The inmates…rioted?"

Dent nods, knowing even so that Batman's barely conscious enough to see it. "Courtesy of Nigma and about five of his best friends. The names Cobblepot gave you were a perfect match."

Bruce Wayne's eyes narrow. "How would you know that?"

"I might be a few years removed from the DA's office, Bats, but I still have friends in all the right places."

Batman sits up on the table and runs a hand through his hair. His hand stops at his temple. He's figured out he doesn't have his mask. And he has a small and sudden tantrum.

"Harvey, where is my mask? What did you do with it? Where is it!"

"Calm down," Dent says flatly. "Crane brought you in, I removed it."

"Then…you know," Batman says and fakes cryptic.

"Present tense," Dent says and smiles. "I had my ideas, especially when you first decided to scare the shit out of Falcone. And to think…"

"What?"

"I used to think it was Maroni in that costume. Maybe a Juris Doctor isn't all its cracked up to be."

"I wouldn't know," Batman concedes.

Dent scoffs. "Bruce Wayne," he says, still bordering on incredulity. "In the flesh."

"So to speak."

"You disagree?" Dent flashes an eyebrow again.

"Enough," Batman says and puts an end to it. "If you're right about this riot—"

"That's not in question."

"—If you're right, we have to stop it."

Dent smiles. Fully. What's left of the scarred part of his face forms into a bastard grin.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Dent said. He reaches one hand into his jacket and pulls out the cowl. Hands it to Wayne. "Secret's safe with me…Bruce. You can live with the risk, so can I."

"Agreed," Wayne says and fits the cowl over his head once more. "You understand what we have to do?"

"Take back the night," Dent says. "Channeling Eastwood much?"

* * *

"Actually," says Batman's voice, tinny and barely audible, "I was thinking of Zorro."

And Edward Nigma, listening in on a pirated HAM line, growls under his breath. He rips the headset from his ears and launches out of his seat.

"Crane!"

Down the hall from the Dispensary, Jonathan Crane's spindly form pivots and sees Nigma barreling toward him in a strange sort of power walk. Nigma's prison-grays flap in the wind resistance.

"What? What is it?"

"This is not good, Jonathan!" Nigma waves a finger in Crane's face, like a doddering grandmother. "Batman is awake, and he's got Dent helping him. You were supposed to stop that from happening!"

Crane scowls and bats Nigma's finger from his face. "Don't. Do that."

"Explain yourself, you clod!"

"I did what you told me, you supercilious bastard!" Crane protests and throws his arms in the air. "Delivered him to the theater. You didn't tell me Dent was supposed to be there—"

"He wasn't!"

"—Much less that giving Batman to him wasn't in the plan."

"It's not!" Nigma screamed. "Dent does not figure into this plan, Jonathan. Get down there. Fix it! **Now!**"

* * *

**_Continued_**... 


	4. Transportation

**Author's Note:** _this is me making lemons out of lemonade--or, attempting to use a discrepancy, brought up by a scurrilous reviewer, in-story. Convicted felons being who they are, allegiances are not as delineated as they seem to be. Nor do they come without a price. You'll see why, in this chapter and beyond._

**

* * *

**

**Harvey Bullock.**

**En route to Arkham Asylum.**

"Bullock? Bullock, come in."

His hand wraps around the CB receiver and he brings it up to his mouth. As he speaks, the cigar screwed between his lips twitches and teeters. Never falls out.

"What is it, Commish?"

"You left in a hurry. Mind telling me how you plan to get on the island?"

"I dunno," Bullock rasps and tamps the cigar. "Figured I'd get Batman to give me a lift."

"He's not answering."

Bullock rolls his eyes and runs a red light, turning on a dime onto Moldoff Avenue. "Surprise," he grumbles.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I'll think of somethin, Jim. No worries. Bullock out."

* * *

**The Operating Theater.**

I can't trust him.

Despite everything he's done for me in the past thirty minutes, I can't trust him. Mainly because the Harvey Dent I knew and respected is gone. His life destroyed, his career nonexistent, his wife…disappeared.

The doctors may say otherwise.

Harvey Dent is dead. And though I loathe admitting it, I don't think he's coming back.

"Bats?"

He draws my attention. "What?"

"You said we were splitting up. Change your mind much?"

"No," I say after a pause. "Let's go."

He pushes open the swing-doors of the operating theater and steps out, level his gun ahead of him. If it weren't for the pinstripe suit and disfigurement I'd almost say he was on the Quick Response Team.

Speaking of…

"I'll take East Wing," he says, half-turning to me. "That's Minimum Security. You're okay with the loonies?"

I glance away from him. Back. "I've been there before. You do what you need to do, and so will I."

His eyebrows flash upward in surprise. "Okay then."

We part at a T-junction. His footsteps echo behind me and eventually die.

* * *

**The Batcave.**

**Underneath stately Wayne Manor.**

The Batcave—a title given by Dick Grayson, the first Robin—was carved out of granite by millennia of erosion. When the current tenant occupied it, he tailored the space to fit his needs.

Particularly, the needs of transportation and information gathering.

To this end, there are garages for his many automobiles, hangars for at least two planes converted from WayneTech and LexCorp designs, and a massive Cray XMP computer—situated at the pinnacle of the cave atop several levels of man-made supports and sub-levels.

Tim Drake—to date, the third boy to call himself Robin—is sitting at that computer; more precisely, perched on the edge of the platform, staring precipitously at a rather precipitous drop.

And behind the domino mask, behind the plates of his skull, the gears are turning.

"Master Timothy, where do you think you're going?"

"Someone breaks into Bruce's room while he's in the shower and makes off with him, Alfred. It doesn't feel right."

"And you presume to have culprits?"

Robin feels momentarily confused.

"No," he says. "It doesn't make sense. None of the usual suspects know who he is, much less the unusual ones. And even if it were someone who knew—"

"Bane, perhaps? Doctor Strange?"

"Nah," Robin says and shakes his head irritably. "Bane would've just beaten the shit out of him, and Strange would've glowered at him all night."

"It's possible," Alfred says and taps his chin thoughtfully. "That it was one of your usual suspects. Dr. Crane perhaps."

Tim fits the green gloves on his hands and turns to Alfred slowly.

"What?"

"There was…a caller," Alfred admits. His posture slouches a bit and he looks away from Tim. "Being as I am, Master Timothy, I answered. It was then that I realized my mistake, and scant moments later Dr. Crane had already worked his dastardly charms. I do apologise, Master Timothy. It is…my way, you know."

Tim inhales. Holds it. Lets go. And fits the domino mask over his eyes. "I'm going."

"Where?"

"We threw Crane in the Asylum months ago. Looks like he's figured out a point of easy access."

"But how are you to get there? The news reports that the bridges off the island have been blown."

Behind the domino mask, Tim's eyes narrow.

"Then I'll fly the unfriendly skies, Alfred. Stay alert."

And Robin launches off the platform, downward to the bowels of the cave. Down to the only kind of transportation that will get him to Arkham Asylum.

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The front desk.**

The Joker, despite leaking blood on pretty much everything, is sitting with his feet up at the front desk. In another life, the pretty little blonde number named Sidney would have sat there collecting papers and police reports and catching grief from the local pigs.

Times change.

There are new tenants now.

For the last twenty minutes or so, Joker's been occupying himself by opening and closing the massive front doors by remote. He even found a rat and trapped him right at the intersection point. You see, when the doors close, cross-hatched wires within the hollow metal electrify. Crispy baked rat.

This gave Joker cause to laugh. But that was only ten or so minutes ago. Now he's just bored, except for the fact that he made a necklace out of Sidney's ears.

One of the red lights on a console next to him blinks to life.

"Eh?"

He presses the call button. It gets the guards desk, further back in the complex.

"This is Nigma," the guard's desk answers back. "Talk to me."

"Roger ten-four, good buddy, we got a chicken in the soup, Smokey. Repeat, chicken in the soup. Come back."

"Cut the Burt Reynolds. What is it?"

Joker pulls his feet down and hunches forward at the desk. He traces the red light's corresponding number on the adjoining ledger. "I want you to go to camera…three outside. Tell me what you see."

Nigma complies.

The image is hazy. But it's certainly what it looks like. Nigma rolls his eyes and talks into the receiver again.

"At the risk of a stupid question—"

"It's one of the piggies, isn't it?"

"Bullock." As soon as Nigma says it, the other end explodes in laughter. "And he's soaked--looks like he just tried to ford the river."

"Let him in, and after a while maybe I'll jump out from behind a pillar and jam an axe in his stomach."

"No," Nigma replies without delay. "I might have known."

"Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to, Eddie."

"Fine," Nigma says and waves his free hand. "Let him in, and make yourself scarce. We'll let Crane have him."

"Jeez, what is it with you and Crane?" Joker questions and cocks an unseen eyebrow. "People will say you're in love."

Nigma sighs. "Good-bye, Joker."

"Wait! Don't I get a Christmas card from you two?!"

Nigma hangs the receiver back on the hook and switches it off.

* * *

**The Batplane.**

**High over Gotham's East End.**

"How's air traffic at Goodwin, Alfred?"

"Frozen solid, my dear sir, and all because of an unidentified bogey flying inside this 'safe radius' of theirs."

"Good. I'm setting her down on the front lawn. Think that'll get their attention?"

"Indubitably."

* * *

**The Operating Theater.**

This is Dr. Jonathan Crane having a tantrum.

"Listen, Nigma," he growls into a two-way radio. "You send me to do a job, and they're not here. So tell me, Mister Answer Man. Where are they?"

"Why don't you sing a nursery rhyme? That usually brings one out."

"Funny," Crane snorts. "Open up your damn security monitors and find them."

Nigma sighs and opens all channels.

Maximum Security. Minimum Security.

Victor Fries. Victor Zsasz. Garfield Lynns. Pamela Isley. Harleen Quinzel.

"Nowhere," Nigma says and frowns. He slumps a bit in his seat and scratches his head. "I have no sign of them. They may not be on the island anymore."

"Don't put too much stock in that theory, Edward. Find them. Or I come gunning for you."

"You can try, you—"

Click. Crane's already turned off the two-way.

"You'd better calm down, Crane."

Crane pivots in place. Behind the burlap mask, he's momentarily frightened. But only momentarily. It stops being scary when Harvey Dent steps out of the shadows, holding a gun at waist length.

Aiming that gun straight at Crane's stomach.

"Harvey? What the hell's going on?"

"You let out the rank and file inmates to deal with the guards. The only people left in the Asylum itself are the four of us, and one dead administrator. And because Penguin got himself thrown in jail, Batman's involved now."

"But you wanted in on this! You told me to leave Batman to you."

"And so you shall," Dent says sharply. His grip on the gun tightens. "You can cast aside whatever notion you think you have that he's Bruce Wayne."

"Nigma knows."

"Nigma thinks he knows. You leave Batman to me, and the rest of you can have Gotham."

Crane frowns quizzically behind the burlap mask. "Fine," he says after a pause. "That's fine. Just…put the gun down."

"No," Dent says. "I keep this on you until you tell me what I want to know." When Crane slides a finger up to his hat and tries to pluck out a straw filled with his trademark gas, Dent shoots him in the hand.

Crane falls to his knees, moaning and massaging the wound.

Dent approaches and angles the gun at Crane's forehead.

"Where did you find out Batman's secret identity?"

"Where did you get that extra costume you had me put him in?"

Dent shoots him in the shoulder. The pain and the point-blank force throw Crane prostrate.

"Where did you find out Batman's secret identity?"

"Hrmm….nn...Nigma…"

"And where did he find it?"

"I don't know."

Dent's thumb pulls the hammer back. Another bullet enters the chamber.

"Arkham," Crane whispers and coughs up blood. "Arkham told him."

Dent puts the gun to Crane's temple, pressing against the burlap.

"Is that so?"

* * *

**The Front Lawn.**

By the time I get out of the plane and actually anywhere near the Asylum front doors, I see Harvey Bullock sitting on one of the concrete pediments, busying himself with a cigar.

He looks bored as hell.

"Well, this is new," I say and approach him. Drape the cape over the shoulder. It makes me look spooky. 'When did the nut take over the nuthouse, Detective?"

He gives me a courtesy smile—one of those 'funny-ha-ha and by the way you're full of it' smiles.

"Funny kid. I was actually waitin on one of you to show up."

"Really?" I say. "We really mean that much to you?" He shrugs. "Thanks, Bullock. Stand back."

I pull two batarangs from my belt—one a standard issue, the other explosive. Throw back the cape theatrically. That's right, Tim, inflate the ego. Make Bullock green with envy.

"What are those?"

"The first one will tell me if the door's electrified."

I let it fly. It makes a small arch and makes contact just above the handle on the right-side door. And it disappears for a moment behind a puff of smoke and sparks.

"Definitely electrified," I say. Bullock says something as I throw the explosive 'rang, and I tune him out.

When the second batarangs hits, its blows a small hole in the left-side door. And when I walk up to judge its size—

"Bullock."

"Yeah?" He says it so awkwardly.

"I'm going in. If you think you can suck it in enough to fit, you're welcome to follow."

"Not really," he says and reaches into his pocket. He comes back with a small plastic rectangle—an Arkham credit card maybe?—and slides it across a slit at the top of the keypad. A small vox reads his name back and says he can enter.

The doors drone for a second as the electricity kicks off, and then open outward.

"You couldn't have done that before?" I ask.

"Cops all get one. Figure we come here enough as is, why should we have to get buzzed in, y'know?"

I shrug. "Fair enough."

The foyer before us is lit-up. Too much so to make me think it's harmless. I take a deep breath and make my hands into fists. They're still shaking a bit. I've never gotten used to coming here.

And this isn't about to make it any better.

Bullock pulls his gun from his shoulder holster and follows me in.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	5. Escalation

**Downtown Gotham City.**

**The office of Mayor Armand Krol.**

"What a mess," Krol says and sips from a wine goblet. His eyes narrow and he stares out his window across the cityscape. Beyond the glittering lights of a hundred high-rises, despite the encroaching night, Krol sees clouds moving in from the Atlantic, pushing cold air ahead. By midnight, if not by morning, there'll be snow.

"Sir?" Jim Gordon spoke up from the back of the room. Krol turns around, sets the goblet on his desk, and stares at it for a moment.

"Okay," he sighs. "The bridges are gone. Batman's not responding. And the National Guard refuses to go in."

"Can they do that?" DeFilippis cuts in. "I mean…that's not very nice of them."

"Doesn't matter what we do, Andy," Gordon says. "Believe it or not, the inmates would eat them alive. We need to send the QRT in there. They're the only ones who know what to expect."

"Alright, listen," Krol interjects. "Gordon, you take DeFilippis and a squad of six to Arkham."

"Six?" DeFilippis frowns.

"Anything bigger would set them off," Gordon says. "Six will have to do."

"Airlift in," Krol says. "One of your blimps should be quiet enough."

"What if they've got air cover, Mayor?" DeFilippis scratches his head. "Could be fifty of them standing on the front lawn with shotguns, it doesn't matter. We could be in the middle of a hornet's nest."

Gordon strokes his chin thoughtfully.

"What about this," he says. "Last I heard from Bullock, he was on his way to the Asylum. That was twenty minutes ago. Chances are he's inside now. And I'm willing to bet Batman's there too."

"Batman isn't answering the signal," Krol says thickly. "He's not coming."

Gordon frowns. Stands. Turns to leave.

"I think you're wrong, Armand. And I'm going to prove it to you."

As he pushes the door open, DeFilippis falls in step behind him and turns to Krol abruptly.

"We'll uh…we'll be in touch," he says and shrugs.

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The Operating Theater.**

Dent rips the burlap mask off Crane's head and tosses it aside. Some of the straws, containing Crane's trademark fear gas, snap and hiss and release trace amounts. Enough to turn Harvey Dent's world on its ear.

He ignores them anyway—lets the disorientation pass after a moment.

Harvey Dent has long since overcome his fear.

He kneels next to Crane's very unconscious body, and pulls the headset from around Crane's head. "Hmm," he grumbles and inspects the unit, and then glances down at Crane.

The man who was the Scarecrow is deep in unconscious slumber, his mouth half-slacked, dripping saliva at one end. He looks almost child-like, except that Harvey Dent knows better.

"Your supplier's a curious man," Dent mumbles to no one in particular. And then puts the communicator in his own ear. He thinks for a moment, and finally speaks. "Nigma."

"Crane? Did you take care of them?"

"No, he didn't," Dent replies thickly. "You have the wrong party."

"Harvey?" Nigma's voice shrinks a bit. After a silence, it picks up. "What the hell's going on?"

"I was thinking you could tell me that. Crane's your lapdog; you think he can take out both me and Batman? Not to mention your little pyrotechnics earlier. This is a hell of a riot, Nigma. You haven't even let out the big guns yet."

"What do you want?" Nigma says, and Dent registers him as getting…irritated.

"To know what you think you're doing, Edward. You're letting the autistic and the brain-damaged run the place while the rest of us are running laps! And now Batman's involved."

"This is not some Sunday picnic, Harvey," Nigma snaps. "There are countless variables."

"Wrong answer," Dent says. "There's one variable, and he's running around Minimum Security in a gray suit. So you need to decide what kind of riot you're running. In about ten minutes, Gordon's going to send the Quick Response Team across that river and ask us very nicely to return to our cells. Do you want to be on the receiving end of their wrath?"

"No."

Dent's lips tighten and his voice drops. "Then open Maximum Security. Let them out. Send the loonies to the armory and give the others a knife or something. For Christ's sake, you let the Joker out!"

At the guard's desk, Nigma frowns and stares at the console for a second. "What makes you think you can just take charge, Harvey?"

"Because all you're doing is sitting there with tented fingers wallowing in your stupid glory, Nigma. I'm taking over because you can't. **Okay**? That sound good to **you**?!"

"But—"

"Listen to me, you little shit," Dent yells. "Open the cells, or I'm coming to rip your testicles off and **feed** them to you, do you **hear** me? You think Batman's the worst of your problems, you ain't seen **nothin'** yet. The price of leaving me out of your little riot is more than you can bear, and you know it. I'm involved now, and you should be **thankful** that I **am**! Don't mess with me, Nigma, **I'm** a **lawyer**!"

Dent pulls the headset off and throws it across the room with a grunt.

At the Guard's Desk, Nigma takes in a quick huff of air and expels it. "God damn you," he says. His finger hovers over the release button for the Maximum Security cells.

And presses it.

Audio speakers in every room of every part of the Asylum are wired into the security system, of which the cell release is part. Blue lights blink rapidly and accompany a monotone alert. Across the ranks and files of Maximum Security, the cell doors slide open.

Garfield Lynns steps out of his cell, cracks his knuckles and starts moving.

Victor Zsasz steps out of his cell and wrings his hands. Then he smiles, and slinks along the walls until he reaches the end of the cell bay.

Harleen Quinzel tiptoes out and stares at the cell next to hers—Poison Ivy's. "Aren't you coming?" Quinzel says. Ivy stares at the potted rose in her lap and says, "No."

In the Operating Theater, Dent hears the alert. He sees the blue light, across the theater, blinking. The guards won't get to it in time, if they see it at all. He sinks to the floor and sets the revolver down and runs his hands through what's left of his hair.

_Harvey._ _You're having a difficult day. You should relax._

* * *

**The office of Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.**

Bullock stands by the door, his gun held high and tight against his torso. If someone was to come around the corner, Bullock would hear them and jump out and try to shoot. 'Course, his blubber would get in the way of good police work.

Story of my life.

"You done yet?" he asks and sounds a little worried.

"No," I say.

I'm perched on top of a filing cabinet, currently about halfway through the top drawer. Tax bills, receipts, some of the private notes of Arkham—as well as those of Asylum's ranking psychologist, Scott Nybakken.

The notes concern themselves with Joker and…Harvey Dent. Interesting.

Altering probability exercises with Dent. The Joker's recent penchant for Marx. The resurfacing of Harvey Dent as the dominant personality.

"Hmm."

"What?" Bullock's still nervous.

"I may have something," I say, staring at Nybakken's notes. I look up at Bullock. "Tell me what you think caused this riot."

"Joker's got ants in his pants, what do you think, birdie?" Bullock says, laying on the sarcasm. "What other explanation y'got?"

"Maybe another. But I need time and thought—see if I can make anything of it."

"Yeah yeah. C'n we go now?"

Bullock lowers and holsters his gun and I leap down from the filing cabinet, landing in a low crouch.

As I stand I see a shape—tall and skinny—leaning against the doorjamb, holding Bullock in a tight chokehold, angling his gun against Bullock's temple.

Joker.

Wearing very unflattering prison greys. Wearing a hideous smile. With a thin continuous stream of blood oozing out of the corner of that grin.

Damnit.

"Well," he says, and presses the pistol against Bullock's fat head. "Looks like you hit the jackpot, tiger. Care to press your luck?"

* * *

**The Guard's Desk.**

**Edward Nigma.**

The computer console in front of him finally links on to the wireless network.

"Finally," Nigma says and cracks his knuckles. He hacks into the Asylum security mainframe and powers down the perimeter guard towers. Generators too. The corridor around him winks as the power surges a final time and then dies.

The Asylum is completely offline now. Lights, phones, security systems. Even the antique electric chair in the basement. All of it gone. The only light in the hallway comes from two emergency lights situated every three feet down the corridor. All the cells are open--the inmates free roaming. The guard towers are powerless. And from the city, Nigma guesses, the Asylum must look like a rotting monolith.

"Ball's in their court now."

"Is that so?"

Nigma lets out a guttural shriek and turns around in his chair. And when he sees Batman step out of the shadows, he sits back and crosses his arms and scowls.

"Had to be spooky, didn't you?"

"I could say the same thing," Batman says, and his jaw barely moves. "A riot instigated almost solely by you. Blowing the bridges to keep me out."

"And yet here you are. It is a riddle, isn't it?" Nigma smiles and touches his chin demurely. "Question: when do the nuts take over the nuthouse, Batman?"

"I wouldn't know."

"When the going gets tough, Mr. Wayne, the tough get going. You think we were going to subject ourselves any longer to Nybakken or Arkham's meaningless therapies? I hate being proven wrong, Batman—worse, I hate being told that I'm somehow a blemish on society because of the lifestyle I choose. Wouldn't you agree?"

Behind the cowl, Batman's eyes narrow.

"So you figured it out."

Nigma nods and smiles like a child.

"You must feel happy."

"It's a little flat, I'll admit," Nigma waves a passive hand. "I didn't even have to try. Let's just say Arkham knows a guy who knows a guy—who knows you. The real you."

"And you're content to keep this to yourself? What happens when Bill Pettit and the QRT bust in here and beat it out of your head?"

"You can threaten all you want, Wayne. It won't give you back your anonymity."

In a flash, Batman backhands Nigma, sending him backwards in his chair. One of Nigma's feet flies in the air and Batman grabs it, pulls him down to the floor. Kicks him square in the ribs and swears he hears a rib crack. Then, Batman grabs Nigma in a chokehold and pulls him up above his own height.

"A riddle for you, Edward. What keeps a man from crossing the line? You've got every cop in Gotham gunning for you. Plus some inmates. How long do you think you're safe? How long do you think you have left?"

Nigma chokes and stutters and spits. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets and roll back to stare at the ceiling.

"It was…Joker…and Arkham. He…he bought off Arkham…"

Batman hears gunshots from up the hall. Then laughter. The maniacal laugh, all too familiar, of a man deeply immersed in the heat of battle, and the glee of his own dementia.

He drops Nigma and runs.

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	6. Mission

**Wayne Manor.**

In the process of laying out Bruce Wayne's wardrobe for the next day—he'll be lucky to be in by dawn anyway—Alfred Pennyworth's attention is distracted by the news.

Vicki Vale smiles at him from beyond the cathode rays and despite the smile, says that something serious has happened on Arkham Island.

"How quick of you to notice," he derides quietly and flattens the crease in Wayne's trousers. 'And here I thought mere kidnapping wasn't enough."

"At this hour," Vale says—midnight according to Alfred's pocket watch—"authorities have begun an emergency airlift onto the island. Commissioner James Gordon could not be reached for comment, and Mayor Krol's office is maintaining a veritable vow of silence in the wake of Arkham's prison riot. More on this story as it develops through the night."

Alfred touches his chin thoughtfully for a moment and turns to gaze out the multi-paned window that makes up the fourth wall of Wayne's bedroom.

"Do come home safely, sir."

In the midnight darkness, Alfred pulls the blinds on the window and stares out at the glitter of Gotham's North End.

"You wouldn't want my life to get boring would you?"

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The Guard's Desk.**

Nigma sits hunched over the console. Nursing a broken nose, nursing a broken ego—though that's happened far more commonly than he's willing to admit—and probably nursing a broken rib.

Everything aches.

And all he can muster is a series of repeated grunts and greedy inhalations. It hurts to breath. But at least he still can.

Doesn't change much, though. Doesn't change the fact that this riot was entirely his idea, and so far it's proving to be an unstable beast. Even the best-laid plans somehow fail. Variables add up too quickly.

Nigma rubs his neck slowly and sighs.

The Penguin should have kept his fat mouth shut. _That's the last time anyone tells him anything._

It's here that Nigma feels a small and cold sensation circling a spot at the base of his skull. A gun barrel. He raises an eyebrow and stares straight ahead.

".22 caliber is it?"

"Smarter than the average bear," the voice from behind says. It lifts the gun from Nigma's skull as Nigma turns his chair around.

Harvey Dent, in all his bifurcated glory.

"Come to gloat some more?" Nigma wheezes.

"No," Dent says and slides his hands into his pockets. "You have something I need."

Nigma's eyes dart back and forth in their sockets as he ponders. "Such as?"

"A name."

"What's in it for me?"

Dent's eyes narrow. "Spoken like a true crook, you know that?"

"Yes, yes," Nigma says and waves a dismissive hand. "Though I must protest, Harvey. I'm the only one of us that isn't terribly homicidal."

"Everything's relative."

"What's this name of yours?" Nigma asks. His fingers dance across a small keyboard as he opens up the Asylum's online mainframe.

"Scott Nybakken, Ph.D."

Nigma stops typing and half-turns. "Are we talking the same Scott Nybakken here?"

Dent's hand runs over the protrusion under his jacket, gently caressing and reminding Nigma of the .22's presence.

"Indeed," Nigma says. "Ask and you shall receive." He types Nybakken's name into the staff search engine. A moment later he turns back to Dent, "Not that you've ever been there, but his office is on the third floor. If he's smart he's hiding under his desk. If the escapees haven't gotten to him yet, you may have a chance."

"Fine."

Dent slides one hand back in his pockets, pivots in place and walks away, strolling down the darkened hallway. Strangely assured, Nigma notes. Awfully convinced of himself.

Nigma rolls his eyes and switches on the security monitors. Visual only, front gates only. And—

"Huh." He leans forward and rests his chin on a curled hand, staring with narrow eyes at the screens. Two of them show a GCPD blimp from different angles, descending on the eastern extremity of the island. Another two screens show the Batman standing motionless in front of the Joker near the exploded front gates.

Nigma smiles. And keeps watching.

* * *

**The Front Gates.**

"Well, well," Joker says and presses the gun tighter on Robin's temple. "Now the gang's all here. What the heck do we care?" He lowers his head and smiles as big and disgusting as he knows he can.

Moments before Batman's arrival, Joker had issued some not-so-veiled threats to Harvey Bullock and fired randomly at the ceiling. Naturally to put a little spring in the pig's step. It worked. The first shot jarred Bullock enough that Joker let him free of his grip. Bullock stumbled for a moment—forward and then backward—and then Joker fired again.

Then Robin tried to work some karate magic and failed. Then Bullock turned around and found himself on the receiving end of a pistol whip.

As a matter of fact, that's him there on the floor. The beached whale with blood trickling out of pretty much every hole God put in his head. Bullock's fat and nearly dead body is the only thing standing between a hostage-taking Joker and a barely moving shadow.

"Well?" Joker says, slightly irritated at Batman's stoicism. "I'm doing my part. This is where you're supposed to do yours!"

"Not quite," Batman says. "You can start by releasing the boy, and telling me what you think you're doing here."

"Mmm," Joker says and licks his lips he leans in close to Robin and blows on the exposed part of his neck. The Boy Wonder shudders at the act and behind his own domino mask, rolls his eyes and feels his flesh crawl. "No," the clown responds. "This one I think I'll keep. He's got good resale value."

Batman's hands, at this point, are shaking blocks of anger, compounded and held that way…because restraint is the only way he's going to get anything out of the Joker. Beat the everlasting piss out of him and he just giggles until time runs out. Don't laugh at his jokes…and he gets desperate.

"Stop me if you've heard it, Joker. Nigma gets word to Cobblepot that he wants to throw a riot and invite 500 of his closest friends. Knowing he can get information disseminated inside a given timeframe, and with relative ease, Cobblepot becomes Nigma's window on the world, trafficking intel and getting him anything he needs for the riot and the bridge demolition. You—being who you are—find out about the rumored riot surprisingly quickly, and play into it to the extent your freedom is assured. After that Nigma's useless to you, as is anyone else involved in the plot. Stop me if this sounds familiar."

Joker nods and smiles, silently imploring Batman to go on.

"And so Nigma enlists Crane to paralyze the people while he runs the systems. Including me."

Joker starts to giggle; guttural and barely audible.

"Something went wrong. Didn't it?" Batman asks. His cape is draped around his shoulders, giving him the illusion of being simply a head attached to moving shadow. Underneath the cape, one of his hands pulls pepper spray out of his belt. The other pulls a razor batarangs. He keeps talking. "You involved everyone you thought was a major player and left the others to rot while you took control. You forgot Harvey Dent."

"Dent's a nutjob, Batsy. And that's straight from the horse's mouth! He's a disgrace to depression."

"And yet you never counted him as useful, did you? Too unbalanced, even by your standards."

With his limited range of motion, Joker taps his nose. "Exactly, Batusi. Plus, he doesn't like playing with others. He's a…bully."

"And he's looking for you now."

"He can try," Joker says, frowning and suddenly getting serious. "He knows who I am. And sometimes—" Joker starts rubbing Robin's neck again "—I wonder if you do."

"All too well," Batman says.

And releases the razorang.

Robin ducks early enough. The razorang catches Joker in the neck and he jerks back with a small grunt. Sinks to the floor a moment later, clutching a growing wound.

"You…you bastard," he rasps. Batman towers over him. The light from the emergency lights down the hall seems to bend around him.

"Not quite," Batman says, his voice deathly flat. He kneels and slaps handcuffs around the Joker's wrists. Stands him up, and pulls him close. "We go through this every week, it seems. Don't we?"

Joker laughs and coughs up blood.

"Hrmm….heh…the price of failure…"

"Not failure," Batman says and takes Joker out with a nerve strike. "Freedom."

* * *

**Later.**

**The Operating Theater.**

Robin looks around with a scientist's curiosity. And a germophobe's disgust.

"They couldn't afford electricity?"

"Nigma cut the power," Batman calls back to him. "The only thing keeping Arkham running is the service utilities."

"So…"

"The special units are down. Victor Fries's refrigerated cell, Alex Sartorius' containment fields, for example. All of them gone."

Robin stops, mid-step and ponders for a moment. "Then why haven't we heard anything that could go bump in the night? No explosions, except for the bridges?"

Batman leads Robin to the center of the Operating Theater and a wide circle of dim emergency lights. They bathe the theater in a sort of warm glow. Warm if disconcerting. In the center of that circle of dim stands a man divided between light and dark.

Harvey Dent, flipping a coin. Unusual, Batman notes and cocks his head ever so slightly.

"Because they're not interested in rioting, Boy Wonder. Sartorius has got plans of his own and Freeze can't be bothered by the usual loonies. In their own heads, they're inmates on a far higher plane of existence."

"Elitists," Robin translates quizzically.

"Partially," Batman interrupts. "The other part is live and let live."

Robin shrugs. "It's a little weird, boss. They're getting smart."

"We can dance around the issues all night, Bats," Dent cuts in. His voice is slow and grave. The voice of a man on a mission. "I've said it before—I think, with the exception of junior here, we all know under what circumstances. You know what needs to be done."

Robin shifts his stance nervously. "Justice," he says evenly.

"Nigma," Robin says. "He's camped out at the guard's desk."

"He's not the worst of our troubles," Batman interrupts and starts pacing. "Gordon can claim him when he makes contact." Batman stops and locks his gaze on Dent for a moment.

Dent's eyes are…hopeful. But only by half.

"We have a job to do. We're going to retake this Asylum. For that to happen, three things need to happen."

"Justice," Dent interjects quickly. "War down the proud."

Batman turns slowly to look at Dent. His eyes, covered by lidless Star-lite lenses, are nonetheless cold and harsh. "Not vengeance." We've…had that problem before."

"Fine," Dent says and waves a passive hand. "You two take care of the crazies. Me, I've got a different problem." Dent nods at Batman, barely glances at Robin and then leaves the theater in a swift gait. Batman doesn't bother to stop him.

"Um" Robin says, cutting the silence. "What was that?"

"He knows what he's doing," Batman says. Refocusing his attention, he looks back at Robin. "You can navigate the Asylum well enough, Tim." Batman still stares after Dent. "I need you to find Dr. Arkham and meet up with Gordon. Get Arkham to a medic—and then interrogate him. Don't let Bullock or anyone else do it. He knows things only we can get from him. If Nigma gives you trouble, reciprocate."

"Got it," Robin says dutifully. Following the same exit as Dent, he's a little more theatrical about it. The kind of theatricality and fancy that only he can pull off.

Leaving Batman alone to his thoughts.

His eyes dance across the room, casting an invisible arc from one end of the theater to the other, and tracing the latticework pattern on the floor tiles. It's here that he notices something missing.

A rather important something.

The last time he heard, Harvey Dent was beating Scarecrow within an inch of his life. Dent had left him here in an unconscious pile on the floor. That was barely thirty minutes ago.

_Where is Crane now?_

Behind the cowl and its Star-lite lenses, Batman puts his mind to other things. He taps his ear, opening a communication channel back to the cave.

"Alfred?"

Static. Then dead air. Then: "Yes, sir."

'Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir. I have cleaned up Dr. Crane's mess."

"Good," Batman says. "Call Dick. Tell him to get here as fast as he can. Once he does, call me—I'll have met up with the QRT by then."

"Sir?"

Batman smiles, only minimally, and says. "He's going to be me. And he's going to be on the island when we take back the Asylum. Only four of the inmates know I'm here—the rest don't know who they're messing with."

"Oh?" Alfred replies, in a patriarchal tone. Rather like a curious parent.

"…Harvey Dent."

"An interesting twist, if I do say so myself."

"The inmates double-crossed him."

"How droll."

Batman cocks his head and refocuses. "They don't know what I know, old friend."

"And what is that?" Alfred says. Batman imagines the butler smiling playfully.

"That would be telling. I'll be in touch."

He taps his ear again, and the line closes.

* * *

**The office of Scott Nybakken, Ph.D.**

"Hiding under the desk is no place for someone like you, doctor."

"Dent?" Nybakken's voice is shattered glass—weak and fearful. "You've come to finish the job, haven't you? Just like the others."

Nybakken pulls himself up to stand with his free hand. His other hand is held tightly against his waist, and Dent perceives a stream of blood seeping through Nybakken's labcoat.

Dent's human eye narrows. His human mouth frowns. "What did they do?"

"I was on my way from the Dispensary when the doors in Maximum opened. I hid in a vacant cell for a bit, but…when they found the armory and put its wares to good use I made a run for it. I think it was Zsasz who caught me in the kidney."

"And you seem fine," Dent says evenly. Starts flipping the coin again.

"I will," Nybakken replies. "But what about you?"

"I'm trying to restore order, doc. Believe it or not."

Nybakken smiles weakly. "I do."

"Come on," Dent says and ushers Nybakken out of the office. Once in the hallway he pulls the gun from his jacket, cocks it. Ready for anything, or so he tells himself. "Stay close."

"Where are we going?"

Dent keeps walking, silently thinking. After a moment:

"The armory."

* * *

**_Continued... _**


	7. Intersession: Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note: **this interregnum references events taking place in the Jeph Loeb graphic novels _The Long Halloween_ and _Dark Victory_ and was also inspired in part by Brian Azzarello's 2004 Batman story, _Broken City_; particularly the paraphrased last lines herein. Enjoy.

* * *

**Batman.**

**Bruce Wayne.**

En route to Maximum Security…Bruce Wayne's mind fires on all cylinders.

_I'd hoped to tell you this to your face, Harvey._

_I miss you. Not in the way of the Ancient Greeks, not even in the way of fatheer and son._

_But in the way of…brothers._

_I suppose we were. Once upon a time. A great team that brought about the seeds of the Roman's destruction. But I only started the night shift. You took it upon yourself to sack the Roman and his empire._

_"That's Jim Gordon talking," you once said.  
_

_You believed in justice. Once. And there have been times since your…transformation when I wonder if you still do. And now Harvey Dent is back from outer space._

_I wonder…why?_

_Was there some hole yearning to be filled? What does Two-Face gain by Harvey Dent's re-emergence, if anything? Why is Harvey Dent even doing this?_

_I have to confess, there's a small part of me that still held on to you after you…split…and did this city a debatable good.  
_

_Killing Falcone._

_Maybe you have a sense of humor no one gets._

_Maybe you and I share personal demons, And try desperately to atone for a past that could have been._

_Though I can't imagine what life for either of us could have been like without our tragedies. I did once, though. But it was a momentary high. Passed over quickly and painfully. A mental band-aid that hasn't stopped hurting since I was eight years old._

_Since all sense left my life._

_I was thinking about telling you everything, Harvey. This was before Sofia Falcone decided to start killing good cops in your name. I trusted you that much—even when you became as two. I still do trust you, otherwise I wouldn't be here._

_It's what friends do._

_And I hope—tonight—that you do what needs to be done. That we all do._

_I miss you, Harvey._

_Gilda, and the rest of Gotham, thought enough of you to give you the epithet of the sun god, and maybe they were right. Maybe Jim Gordon's still talking. Maybe you really are Apollo—vindictive like a god, compassionate all at once._

_Maybe you really can do no wrong._

_I wanted to tell you everything, Harvey, and now because of Jonathan Crane it's a moot point. You know anyway, even and especially if you don't believe it. I'd wanted to tell you the truth—as I've done with Dick Grayson and Jason Todd and Tim Drake—in the province of trust. Friendship._

_Because we fought together to rid Gotham of the evil that was killing it. Then, you became part of that evil when you put a bullet through the Roman's temporal lobe._

_You became part of that evil, and I kept fighting when I should have by rights given up. The war had been won but Harvey Dent's battle lost._

_And so I keep fighting, in the hope—and I do hope, every now and then—that you would come back from two faces. When I heard you were beating the Joker to pulp I smiled. Not out of jealousy or even bloodlust, but because I realized that one day I wouldn't have to do this anymore. Not alone. Not just me yelling into the wind anymore._

_One day, I could stop. Or hand the reins to another driver, and there'd be no more evil to kill Gotham. No reason for me to exist. No reason to keep up the war when the war ends. And I think it will one day._

_I will win--when there's no more crime, no crime, no suffering._

_Because I fight. For you, Harvey, and for my parents, too late robbed of a life they deserved. _

_I will win._

_I hope for your sake that day is tomorrow._

* * *

**_Continued... _**


	8. Riotous Victors

_**Author's Note:** A bit longer chapter this time, partly because I was feeling an egregious attack from the devil of expository writing. Hopefully, though, that won't hamper your reading. Enjoy--and in the company of Gotham's Rogues, trust no one..._

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**Harvey Dent.**

They're on their way to the armory, Dent says, a nice—if disappointingly small—little pantry of a room located at the rear of Maximum Security. It's there for a number of reasons, the chief being that in case of an, ahem, emergency, the guards have easy access to weapons of death. Despite the unsettling fact that even assault rifles have no effect on, for instance, Poison Ivy.

But Dent and Nybakken are headed there anyway, and they're not interested in actually killing people—though Two-Face says it's the only way to Get Things Done.

Two-Face says a lot of things...

* * *

**Maximum Security--Third Floor.**

**Batman.**

In between breaking Garfield Lynns' ribs, Batman opens a channel to Jim Gordon and his six-man squad. They're about to storm the front gates, Gordon says, and Bullock's met up with them.

"That makes seven," Batman notes and moves on to Lynns' forearm, snapping only the tibia. "Krol wouldn't approve any more?"

"I can manage six. I didn't want to overwhelm the damn place. It's already crazy enough without cops wasting bullets."

"Agreed." Lynns squirms away while Batman's still speaking. He's halfway down the cellblock—surprisingly fast, even at his peak—before three razorangs—at the neck, lumbar, and gluteus, put him down. Batman approaches slowly, body tense and ripe with anticipation, and tunes into the unconscious mumble of Lynns' breathing.

"That was too easy," he mutters—despite the speed.

"What?" Gordon asks.

"Nothing." The Dark Knight kneels next to Lynns and pats him down for concealed weaponry. Lynns isn't the particular type to hide a knife in his waistband. Batman checks anyway. "I'm running clean-up in Maximum Security. Where are you?"

"Almost to the Guard's Desk—"

"You can ignore Nigma, then. Leave him to me."

"You want me to just leave him there?"

"Putting him back in his cell does us no good for the time being. There's still chaos in here—let him think he's king. We on the other hand have jobs to do."

Silence as Gordon ponders. Probably leaning to Montoya or Bullock and asking what's going on that he should know about. Behind the Star-lite lenses of his cowl, Batman rolls his eyes, partly out of amusement.

"You're sure?"

"Quite," Batman reassures. "He'll give you a dirty look as you walk by. Don't give him the dignity of a response. Once you get to the cell bays, split up your teams. Three in maximum, three in minimum."

"What about me?" On the other end, Gordon starts to sweat and wring his hands. This is Jim Gordon agitated. And getting worse.

"Find Robin in Minimum Security. Once you do, come to the Medical Wing. We'll regroup there—" Batman stops speaking…and thinks for a moment. His gloved hand rises and strokes his chin. Again, agitated. He thinks. And frets. And finally says it. "...And then go after Dent."

At the other end of the line, on mention of the name Harvey Dent, Gordon cocks his head in confusion.

"Fine," he says, dismissing it. "Gordon out."

He holsters the two-way radio and stops. The men and woman in uniform behind him follow suit. All are dressed in identical SWAT gear, sans helmets, with assault rifles angled at the ready. 9mm standard sidearms all around.

Gordon inhales sharply. Holds. Lets go. An old habit from his smoking days.

"Alright, listen. Bullock and Montoya take Maximum Security—you've had experience with it before, and take Crosby along. Hardback, Kitsch, Josie—you're in Minimum. All of you: keep it quiet. You encounter trouble, radio back to confirm and then deal with it. I don't care if Zsasz is crucifying some orderly on an upturned lab table. Prejudice when needed—restraint at all times. Got it?"

They all nod in unison. And form teams.

And split.

Gordon readies his gun and tightens the Kevlar vest. And starts moving.

He imagines he feels his heart desperately pressing against the Kevlar, trying and failing to escape.

* * *

**The Armory.**

**Harvey Dent and Scott Nybakken.**

"What are we looking for?"

_You know, he sounds like Gilda almost—especially Christmas shopping, when all she could do is sit. And stare. Never buys anything, just fawns over How Nice That Would Look in the Dining Room and You're Overworking Yourself, Harvey._

_Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. That's all she ever did, all she was ever good for. Even at the end all she was…was trouble. And not worth the amount she put you through._

Go off it. We've got more important things to deal with.

_Out of the frying pan, Harvey. This riot of yours has gone loco. Now matters are worse—and with your kind of luck you'll both be dead before they get better,_

Dent stands not a foot from a large metal bureau with two large doors and stares at it quizzically for a moment. Locked, evidenced by a small silver circle above the left-side handle. Damn.

"We're looking for weapons," Dent answers and tries to make it sound pleasant. "This .22 isn't going to last very long. I need something with a little more kick. Something that'll scare these assholes back into their cells."

"And what about **your** cell?" Nybakken asks timidly and starts wringing his hands.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Dent says, and extends a hand. "Give me your keys."

"No."

Dent's face—both sides—darken. He pulls the .22 out of his jacket and fires at the ceiling abruptly. "I don't have time for this shit!" he yells. "Give me the keys, Nybakken."

"No."

Dent's free hand grabs Nybakken's labcoat by the lapel. With not much force at all, he shoves Nybakken against the cabinet. With his other hand, Dent presses the .22 to Nybakken's forehead. His finger quivers, a millimeter above squeezing the trigger.

"Give me the keys."

"This isn't what you want, Harvey," Nybakken says with a kind of stuttering certainty. "Remember what we worked on in session."

"People are dying," Dent seethes. "Open the cabinet so I can get a gun, or I'll blow your goddamn head off. Do it! **Now**!"

Dent releases him, and Nybakken fumbles in the labcoat pocket and pulls out a large keyring. In another life it was probably the janitor's keyring, Dent guesses by the diameter and the number of keys on it. There's no end; every inch of the ring occupied by a key. Nybakken pulls one up from the assortment, a brass one with red tape covering the core number, and slides it hesitantly into the cabinet lock.

Dent pushes him aside and throws the doors open.

A row of rifles, one on each side of the bisected cabinet, with two shelves above: one holding handguns in plastic holsters, the higher one holding handheld tasers and what Dent only assumes to be cattle prods. His human mouth frowns momentarily, and his eyes dart to the pull-out drawers below the rifle racks. Three drawers on each side and each holds small tranquilizer guns and deceptively decorative feathers, plungers and needles.

He grabs a handful, assembling five darts in all, and slides them in his inside jacket pocket.

Grabs a rifle and hands it back to Nybakken.

"This is a **real** gun, Doctor. Remington Wingmaster—the kind rednecks use to kill deer. Makes me wonder why you have it in the first place, but I'm not one to argue taste. You pull that trigger and someone's gonna be in a world of pain. I'd advise you to tread lightly."

"What about you?"

Dent lays the .22 in an open spot on the shelf, grabs two handguns from the shelves, whirls them around in each hand.

"I prefer the lightweight approach. Let's go."

* * *

**Maximum Security--Ground Floor.**

**Detective Harvey Bullock. Lieutenant First Class Renee Montoya. Lieutenant Second Class David Crosby.**

Bullock munches on the toothpick in his mouth as he waddles down the hallway. He crooks his neck to look behind himself.

"Christ, Lieutenant, keep up will ya?" he mutters. "Gonna get shot."

"Sorry, Harv," Crosby says. He smiles a toothy grin and shrugs as much as the rifle in his hands allows. "I got distracted. It's the architecture, y'know."

"Take in the sights some other time," Montoya cuts in, from the head of the line.

"Yeah yeah," Bullock says and spits out the toothpick. "Goddamn rookies. Got no business in here. You shoulda stayed at college, Crosby."

Montoya stops and turns around fully, giving Bullock quite the look of death.

"Give it a rest, Detective. He's doing all he can."

Bullock scowls and shies away from Montoya. Keeps walking and keeps his distance from Crosby. The cell block is deceptively quiet. The cell bay's about thirty yards long, with cells flanking both sides. Some are padded with wall-sized observation windows acting as a fourth wall, others were standard prison cells with drab grey doors and a small grated window at eye-level for observation. Montoya is aware of the very few prisoners still in their cells, among them Victor Freeze--apparently in possession of his ray gun, and using it to climatize in the absence of electricity--and Clayface, though Montoya can't be sure which one. Karlo, Hagen, Payne...it's all bad news.

Montoya pulls a Maglite from a pocket on her vest and flicks it on, illuminating a long oval directly in front of her team.

"Stay close," she says, and imagines that a nonintervening Clayface could still have his fun with them. "This could get messy."

Halfway down the cell bay, Bullock stops at the cell of Harleen Quinzel. She's sitting quietly on her bed, busy with a coloring book and having quite a good time from the looks of it. She only glances up once to smile at Bullock—as if to say 'look at me, look at what a good citizen I am'—and then returns to her coloring.

Bullock glances at an equally confused Crosby, shakes his head and keeps walking.

All three of them stop when they hear a metallic clang echo down the cell bay from somewhere behind them.

Crosby pivots around in place hastily and doesn't lift his weapon to ready fire. For his speed and his recklessness, he gets a shot in the knee and falls to the ground, clutching his knee and rolling back and forth rather like a six-year-old, groaning at the obvious pain.

Montoya raises her gun to eye-level and pockets the Maglite. "Follow me," she whispers to Bullock. They trace their steps backward, to a flickering light coming from the cell neighboring Quinzel's. The cell that would ordinarily hold one Victor Zsasz.

"Don't do to have a lady get shot. Hang back." Bullock readies his gun and steps into the cell.

His gun skids across the floor a second later, out of teh cell, across to the other end of the cell bay. Montoya steps into the cell and aims her gun at a dark shape, hunched against the back wall. The emergency lights in the cell don't give much light, but they do give enough to identify the man about to slit Harvey Bullock's throat.

Victor Zsasz. A serial killer whose particular peculiarity is to score his body with tally marks for every kill he gets. Bullock perceives the entirety of the man's chest is covered in five-slash tallies. Zsasz is a gaunt man, muscular too. Muscular enough to pin Bullock to the floor with a well-placed knee on the chest and not even budge.

He's got a gun in one hand and a knife clutched between his teeth—butcher's by the looks of it, probably stolen from the kitchen. _Probably used on people **in** the kitchen_, Bullock thinks and feels bile rising in his throat.

"Freeze," Montoya says evenly. Her gun is leveled on Zsasz's forehead, unflinching, just as much as she is. This is Renee Montoya determined.

Bullock's eyes dart around in their sockets. This is him nervous.

Lieutenant Crosby has gotten up and has stumbled to Zsasz's cell, supporting himself on the cinderblock wall with one hand, holding his weapon lazily in the other, and trying his damndest to keep weight off his injured leg.

Zsasz's eyes narrow and he locks his gaze on Montoya.

"Freeze? I believe you have the wrong cell, Renee." His voice is obscured by the knife between his teeth. He spits the knife into his free hand, and when he hears Montoya's thumb slide over the hammer on her gun, he scowls. "You do anything and I'll snap his xiphoid, Renee. It'll puncture his heart and he'll be dead in minutes. And your little lieutenant there hasn't got much longer. I suspect with the dank conditions of the cell block"—Zsasz begins to chuckle, and his dark eyes light up—"his wound is _in medias res_ of becoming septic."

"You shot Lieutenant Crosby, and now you're holding my partner at knifepoint. Tell me where you got the gun and I'll make your physical therapy brief."

Zsasz smiles again and waves a disapproving finger.

"Tut-tut, Renee." As Zsasz speaks, he takes on a mellow tone. Almost soothing, except that Montoya knows better. "Where else, my dear _niña,_ but where Arkham keeps all the guns in this burned out little Sanitarium?"

"You're wasting my time."

"I have a knack for that," Zsasz grins.

Silence—Montoya doesn't respond, and hopes that will quiet him down. Or agitate him. In any case, she's the one with a gun on his forehead. He's just a serial killer with about forty flesh wounds too many.

In the middle of a plan of action, all four of them hear machine gun fire from…elsewhere in the cell bay. Montoya turns her head instinctively to ascertain the origin.

That's all Zsasz needs.

All he needs to raise his gun and shoot Crosby again, this time—at a weak point in the Kevlar vest—the shoulder. The force of impact takes him off his feet. Montoya's head turns back too late, and she catches a shot in the chest, above what Zsasz perceives to be her left breast. She stumbles back a bit, just far enough for Zsasz to pull an ace out.

Zsasz stands and releases Bullock. Allows him to stand and then kicks him square in the back, pushing him into the cell bay.

In the haze and confusion, in perfect control of the situation, Zsasz grabs Crosby by the sleeve and pulls him in. Pulls the cell door closed, separating the two of them from Bullock and Montoya.

Punches Crosby in the mouth and sends him to the floor. Throws his gun across the room and crouches over Crosby's prone—and depressingly helpless—form and strips off the flak jacket.

"Now," Zsasz rasps and spits on Crosby's face a little. He presses the knife against the left side of Crosby's face and applies pressure. A thin stream of blood trails a centimeter behind the blade. Crosby groans and starts to weep. And Zsasz smiles.

Keeps cutting.

"Tell me, Lieutenant. How much do you treasure that wonderfully breakable jaw of yours?"

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	9. Turnabout

**Maximum Security. ****Ground Floor.**

He steps over the unconscious bodies of Bullock and Montoya—stops at Montoya and regards her as fondly as he can—and stops at the entrance of the cell, staring coldly at the dim interior, and the shirtless man crouched over a motionless GCPD officer.

His human ear hears the muffled screaming. And the wet popping of Lieutenant Crosby's jaw being slowly, methodically, torn from its skeletal resting place. His nonhuman ear, the one Sal Maroni destroyed, hears the sounds better.

No outer ear structure to distort incoming sounds.

His human eye leaks a single tear, and even that's a stretch for all the argument going on in his head. His human lungs—two of the few things left unscarred by Maroni (to say nothing of his sonofabitch father all those years ago)—allow a deep breath to sooth rapidly ruffling feathers.

_It wasn't supposed to be this way_, Harvey Dent thinks as he stares at Zsasz.

Zsasz. Ripping out Crosby's jaw. And Crosby, long since passed into a painful unconsciousness as the blood and saliva soak into his clothes—and into the cement flooring.

"That's enough. Let him go."

Zsasz stops, eases up from his crouch, standing to face Dent. Face to face to face. Loosely he holds the bloody—indeed, dripping—jaw that once belonged to Crosby. Zsasz's eyes darken and he smiles thinly.

"See how they scream, Two-Face. It's like ripping the leg off a Christmas turkey."

"Spoken like a true psychopath," Dent mocks.

"Oh no," Zsasz smiles and starts tossing the jaw playfully like a baseball about to be pitched. "I'm a man of science, Two-Face. I wanted to test the human jaw's tactile strength, if you take my meaning. There's very little pain, aside from the initial separation and subsequent shock. The skin burns, you know—air hits the fat underneath and causes the burning sensation. It's really just oxidation."

Dent sighs. His eyes dart around the cell impatiently.

"You were supposed to scare them off. Now matters are worse."

"Sucks to the rules," Zsasz says tightly. "I have my methods. And who do you think you are to tell me to change them?"

Dent cocks his head.

Pulls the Beretta from his jacket.

Shoots Zsasz in the knee.

Crosby's jaw rolls out of Zsasz's hand, some inches across the floor before resting naturally.

"You…you shot me, you son of a bitch!"

Dent tightens his grip on the pistol, gets close to Zsasz, and presses the barrel against his forehead.

"I was giving this city trouble when you were living off your millions, Zsasz. You think this is how you become one of us? You think because some clinician writes you off as a nutcase--that gives you the right to become a dime store Buffalo Bill?"

Dent grabs Crosby's jaw, stands and straightens his jacket and tie.

"Who do you think is in charge here, Zsasz? Nigma wanted you in on this, I give you a gun to cinch the deal, and you screw it up." Dent reaches into his outer jacket pocket and pulls out a small silver dollar. He balances it on his thumb, and watches it shine mercurially before flipping it.

Zsasz's eyes trace the exact movement. Apogee to perigee. Instinctively Dent catches it in his open hand, reads the verdict. His eyes go to Crosby, unconscious in a pool of his own blood, and then to Zsasz.  
Dent trains the Beretta, unflinching, on Zsasz's left eye.

Altering his aim only slightly, Dent fires and hits Zsasz just below the left collarbone. He holsters the Beretta and turns to leave.

"You see, Victor, I can be a monster too and I'm far more effective than you. I want you to remember that, because the next time I see you treating someone so barbarously…I'll kill you."

. Outside the cell, he hands Crosby's jaw to Nybakken. Nybakken cringes at the mess, but holds it anyway.

"See that Gordon gets this. Tell him there's an officer down in Cell 192 and he needs immediate attention."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to end this."

* * *

**The Metropolis Regent Hotel.**

Underneath a black peacoat, with the collar turned up and a wide-brimmed fedora to mask his features, he stood at the registration desk, an oak wood affair with faux-gold adornments and a probably equally fake-marble slab. On this, in the guest ledger, he wrote his name as he'd practiced it in the car.

Frederick Chilton, he signed in a passable flourish, cocked his head and chuckled at his own cleverness. His friends and neighbors back in Baltimore call him Fred for short—this he told the desk attendant. She smiled innocently enough and didn't think a thing about the entendre.

"And how will you be paying, Mr. Chilton?"

"Cash. And its _Doctor_ Chilton," he feigned seriousness.

"Apologies."

"It's alright," he said and handed her the money, leaning over the counter and smiling warmly. "It's a bit of an impromptu stay, so I've included enough extra pay for at least one extra night's stay." He wouldn't need an extra night's stay.

"I appreciate that, Dr. Chilton." She turned around in her chair and turned back, handing a brown envelope to him. "Your room is 401. The key is in the envelope, as is a welcome guide and map of the city. If you're looking for sightseeing I recommend the LexTower. It's recently been remodeled."

"I saw on the way in," he lied. "Thank you."

He pocketed the envelope in his overcoat and turned away from the desk making swiftly for the bank of elevators. He carried only a single garment bag, and that was quite enough. Even in the City of Tomorrow his visage was too well-known to travel much anywhere without a prodigious and really rather ridiculous amount of concealing cosmetics. He'd given the two most powerful men in town at least one spell of trouble too many over the years. It behooved him to not be noticed, despite however brief his stay would be.

He wondered, alone in the elevator, if the GCPD thought him stupid enough to fly out from Goodwin. A quick swim across the river was easy enough to manage, even with blown bridges, and from there simply a matter of finding an appropriately unlocked car and getting thirty miles down the road unseen.

Tomorrow—maybe tonight, he hadn't really decided—he would shop for the necessary concealments. Hair coloring (a wig maybe, as he liked his natural emerald and ill wished to cut it off), teeth coverings from the costume store up on Sullivan Street and some other topical things to change his appearance so far as anonymity was concerned.

When it was convenient enough he'd leave Metropolis, perhaps for sunnier shores—as near as Hub City or as far as Keystone. There was no reason to hurry.

* * *

**The Batcave.**

**Underneath stately Wayne Manor.**

"I say," Alfred Pennyworth remarks as he applies stage blood to the left nostril of a faux skin Bruce Wayne mask. "You could almost pass for Master Bruce yourself."

"Don't kid yourself, Alfred," Dick Grayson smiles and the faux-skin reacts accordingly. "I'm happy to help, but this might be a little much."

"He asked for your help, and you graciously accepted."

"Fine," Grayson dismisses. "I can deal with this. If he makes me dress like a girl, all bets are off."

"Would it not be the first time?"

"I suppose not."

"Hold still," Alfred says and applies a fake black eye. "We're attempting to recreate a kidnapping and you're supposed to look assaulted."

"Peachy," Grayson says and fidgets in his seat. "Y'know, I haven't had this much make-up on since I did _The Music Man_ at Hudson."

A small series of beeps issue from Grayson's ear-piece communicator. He taps his ear once to open the channel.

"What is it?"

"It's me," a familiar tenor says. "Are you almost ready?"

"Are you going to be patient, Bruce?"

"Not tonight. What's keeping you?"

"Alfred was doing my nails, what do you think? I may not be a Boy Wonder anymore, but I'm still not as tall as you. Even in your smallest business suit, I still look like I'm wearing a freakin' drop sheet."

"I understand that," Batman says. "Can you get past the physical limitations and do what I've asked you?"

"Of course," Grayson replies without reservation. "But I suspect you'll have me run through it again."

"No," Batman says abruptly. Grayson smirks.

"Real cute, Bruce."

"No," the Dark Knight replies. "I trust you. Do what you can, and keep me posted."

"Before you go," Nightwing interjects. "One question and I bring it up because the police reports were a little thin. Why the Penguin? Why was he the lynchpin to all this?"

"Nigma and the others started this riot, and Cobblepot was the only one of their little clique not in prison. Nigma followed his old neurosis and got my attention by way of Cobblepot's own incarceration. I'm guessing that when the riot was over, Nigma was planning on busting out Cobblepot as well."

Nightwing chuckles and shakes his head incredulously. "Except that Edward Nigma doesn't honor his deals."

"The mark of a true sociopath," Batman reminds him. "But the one thing none of them counted on was Harvey Dent."

"Oh?" Grayson says and gets no response.

Batman has already closed the line.

* * *

**The Office of Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.**

**Robin and Jim Gordon.**

The first dawn of light in Dr. Arkham's world brings pain. He's trying to lift his head, only find himself momentarily paralyzed by the sheer pain of doing so. It takes another minute of intense cognitive function for him to realize he's flat on his back on his own desk, part of a sort of bastard operating table.

When he tries to speak the words come out as wet murmurs.

"Try not to move," a voice says. A few seconds of thought and focus tells him the voice belongs to Jim Gordon. "You were attacked by the Joker. You've got about a three inch wound in your neck that'll rupture if you try to move anymore."

"Where," Arkham mumbles. "Where is he?"

"Disappeared," another voice says, this one coming from a dark shape at the very edge of Arkham's field of vision. When the shape hops off a filing cabinet and peers over the desk to stare Arkham in the face, the Asylum curator places the face as Robin. "For parts unknown, Doctor."

"And…what are you all doing…here?"

"We were about to ask you the same thing, Arkham," Gordon says. "You've got a riot on your hands and we're all trying our best to police it."

"That's right." The Boy Wonder leans closer to Arkham's face and applies small pressure to his neck brace at the point of the Joker's wound. Arkham lets out a sharp falsetto of a shriek and hisses, trying to subdue the pain. "Gordon is going to give you something to wake you up and then something to dull the pain—both of them from Batman's secret stash. When that happens you're going to do a little something for us."

Arkham's eyes dart back and forth between Gordon and Robin.

"As for me," the Boy Wonder continues darkly, "I've got a conundrum. We have questions and you're just the man to answer them. When that anti-depressant kicks in, you're gonna tell me everything you know about this riot. Capisce?"

* * *

**The Guard's Desk.**

**Jonathan Crane and Edward Nigma.**

"You should get help," Nigma says.

Crane keeps rubbing his forehead and says, "I'm fine. What you need to do is up the ante on this little riot of yours. We can't risk Batman shutting it down."

"You can all stop looking for the Dynamic Duo," Two-Face cuts in from the shadows. He clutches the Beretta tightly at his waist and aims it in Crane's general direction. "Batman's in Maximum Security. Robin and Gordon are in Arkham's office."

"What?" Nigma asks, confounded. "How could you know this?"

"Consider it the price of leaving me out of your plans." The human half of Two-Face raises an inquisitive eyebrow and gives a confident smirk. "Now...you want control, Nigma. I want Batman. Let's see what we can do for each other."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	10. Threads

**The Operating Theater.**

_Are you even listening anymore?_

I listen plenty. And you haven't answered the question. Why are you back now? Come to finish the job, come to gloat?

_I had to see it for myself, and it's depressing. You've cooked your own brain in the pursuit of Harvey Dent. You sicken yourself. You envy me._

More like despise.

_Yes, get angry with me. That's the solution._

Where've I heard that before?

_Don't get smart with me. You ask me why I came back and don't stop to think that I never left? I never sleep in here, Harvey. I'm winning, and the only reason you can't succumb and put a bullet in your mouth is because you miss me._

Go to hell.

_You miss the old thrill, the excitement of simply…letting go. Beating the shit out of Zsasz, for example._

Things are a little different now.

_That's Nybakken talking. But if you despise me so, then kill me, and stop pretending to get better. You think these dice and these Tarot decks are actually helping you? People never fully exorcise their demons, Harvey; they just shove them to the back burner. They come back for you—I come back, and when I'm confident enough you can't pick your nose without thinking of me, perhaps then I'll relent. But if you want to kill me, then kill me. Stop the charade. You owe me at least that much._

No. I can't kill you.

_And why is that?_

Dent sighs. Runs one hand through his hair. "It would be suicide."

* * *

**Downtown Gotham City.**

**City Hall.**

_It's hard not to make it weird_, he thought. Why was a billionaire traipsing into the Mayor's office at one in the morning looking to talk about a riot?

He smiled and went back into character as he pondered the odds of Krol actually thinking it through. A billionaire meeting with the Mayor at one in the morning and not giving or receiving a bribe?

Meh.

Stranger things had happened.

He went up the steps—shallow marble effigies, probably an architect's attempt at channeling some European museum—with quickness. Best not to keep Krol, or his secretary, waiting.

Then he cocked his head minimally and wondered some more. _She must be getting some damn good overtime for burning the midnight oil_.

From the stairs, he scoped her out: a prim and proper brunette number in what appears to be a grey pantsuit. Black square-rimmed glasses sat loose on her nose and she seemed falsely engaged in writing things down in a planner in front of her. _Probably dates for her book club_, he thought wryly. He stopped a few feet away and laid one hand flat on the desk. Best to get her attention.

"I'm looking for Mayor Krol," he said warmly.

"Name?" the secretary asked and didn't look up from the planner.

"Ah, Bruce Wayne."

The secretary's eyes traced away slowly from the planner, her hand slacked and rested on the desk, and her head rose to see if it were really true. She'd never seen him before, this Bruce Wayne. In her head she kicked herself for leaving the camera at home.

* * *

**Arkham Asylum.**

**The Office of Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.**

Jim Gordon paces outside the office, leaving the Boy Wonder inside, to his interrogative devices. As he passes the door and its glass window, he sees Robin seated on the edge of Arkham's own desk, seemingly talking casual with the administrator. He talks with his hands, Gordon notes of the Boy Wonder. Arkham sits a few feet away, gathered into himself, taking whatever Robin's saying with the quiet guilt of a schoolboy.

Gordon hears a crash a few seconds later and thinks Robin's just thrown a chair across the room. _Yikes._

Instead he powers on his two-way radio and holds it close to his mouth. In his other hand he grips his sidearm. As he paces, his eyes dart down the hallway and back. The lights are still off—Gotham Edison won't get to the breakers anytime soon, with the bridges blown. The emergency lights don't do much to settle Gordon's nerves.

"Andy," he says quietly into the two-way.

"Commissioner."

"Moor the blimp and get in here." Gordon's eyes flash down the hall and he thinks he sees a shape darting between the Dispensary and the lounge. "And make it quick."

"Boss?"

"It's starting to unravel, Andy. My Maximum Security team hasn't checked in, and Batman's being…spooky. Get Pettit on the horn and tell him—"

"One second," DeFilippis cut in. "I'm getting a call from downtown."

"What is it?"

"It's Krol." Gordon perceives a hint of surprise in DeFilippis' voice. "He says Bruce Wayne was assaulted by the Scarecrow a few hours ago."

"Is he alright?" Gordon asks.

"Apparently," DeFilippis says. "He visited Krol himself and told him to mobilize the QRT."

Gordon rolls his eyes. "Nice."

"Sir?"

Behind Gordon, the office door's glass window shatters. He jumps at the sound, and turns around in time to see a chair flying out and landing noisily on the hallway's tiled floor. He peers around the broken glass and sees Robin—the back of his body—staring out the window, his stance definitely evocative of his mentor. Gordon pushes the door open and walks in. At the other end of the office, Arkham sits stolid in the chair, staring at the floor vacantly.

"Hang on, Andy," he says into the two-way, and pockets it. "Robin?"

The Boy Wonder doesn't answer.

"Is…everything okay?" Gordon asks and scratches the back his head awkwardly.

"Arkham was their inside man," Robin says quietly. "He got them everything they wanted. Unlocked the cells, let Nigma run the show. He even traded in his confidentiality to figure out our secret identities."

Behind his glasses, Gordon's eyes shift nervously. He doesn't know what to think. The Boy Wonder turns around: "That's how they started this, Commissioner. They all promised Arkham something, and he promised them free reign. But he didn't foresee the Joker trying to kill him."

"That was his mistake," Batman cuts in from the doorway. Gordon pivots in place to see him, and Robin turns around fully as the Dark Knight continues.

"Your Minimum Security team is waiting in the Operating Theater. Maximum Security's contained, but your team has seen better days. Montoya and Bullock are groggy but conscious. The other one wasn't so lucky."

"Crosby?" Gordon asks, and his voice is something above a whisper. "What happened?"

"Zsasz happened, Jim." He throws one half of the cape back over his shoulder and holds out Crosby's jaw, wrapped in muslin, for Gordon and the Boy Wonder to see. "I found Nybakken in the Dispensary, carrying this."

Robin's eyes widen and one of his hands covers his mouth, anticipating a resurgence of lunch. Gordon just stares.

"Jesus. How'd that happen?"

"What happened to Crosby?" Robin asks, still holding is hand over his mouth.

"Zsasz took a butcher's knife to his jaw and carved it out. Crosby's sedated enough to dull the pain until he can get proper treatment. He needs to get off this island, Jim."

Gordon stares at the wrapped jaw, at the floor, and back at Batman. "Okay," he says, in a daze. "I agree. Where is he?"

"Just outside."

Gordon starts to leave and Batman sidesteps to let him by. "We can get him to the front doors; Andy can get him to the hospital. I'll go with you."

As they turn to leave, the Boy Wonder speaks up and finally lowers his hand. "What about me?"

Batman stops in midstep and turns around, thinks for a moment.

"Find Dent," he says quickly and leaves. Robin watches him glide down the hallway, with Gordon in tow, and imagines he can see the fire behind the cowl's Star-lite lenses.

* * *

**The Guard's Desk.**

Over a game of Solitaire, Nigma perceives two shapes coming down the hallway, getting ever closer to him. He squints and readjusts his glasses, and puts names to bodies. Batman and Gordon. And they're coming in fast.

And they're pushing a…gurney?

Nigma freezes instinctually. _This could be bad._

He sinks in his chair a bit and locks his gaze on the Dark Knight, trailing the gurney, and Gordon pushing it.

His posture straightens and he starts to giggle.

Batman stops. His head snaps to one side, staring dead at Nigma. For a moment, Nigma thinks he sees a scowl working its way into the Dark Knight's composure. Before he can decide, Batman speaks.

"Nigma," he says thickly.

"Batman," Nigma smiles and gives a courteous nod. His eyes glance to the gurney. "Question: what time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?"

"I don't have time for this," Batman prods.

"What time is it," Nigma persists. His voice hardens. "When your police officers are falling apart at the seams?" He chuckles once, and answers his own question. "Time to get new ones."

Batman steps forward and grabs Nigma' by the lapels on his prison greys and pulls him into the air. Shakes him a bit as he speaks. "This is Lieutenant David Crosby. Mutilated beyond recognition. Probably beyond repair because of this prison break you—and that **worm** of a doctor Arkham started."

Riddler's eyes dart in their sockets, as if something in the darkened Asylum will give him an answer. He starts to sweat. And stammers. And fails to respond.

"I…I…Uh…"

"Speechless," Batman mocks, and throws him to the floor. "I blame you, Nigma. For everything that's happened. For letting Zsasz loose and almost killing this man." Nigma dusts his uniform off and stands.

Batman kicks him in the chest and pins him to the ground instead.

"The next time we meet, Edward, it will be at my pleasure. And you'll see what **I** do to cop-killers."

Batman pulls Nigma up, does him the favor of straightening his uniform, dusting off the shoulders and arms with care.

And then punches him in the face.

Nigma's head jerks away, the muscles going slack from the impact. His glasses shatter and fall to the floor. A stream of blood follows in a linear fashion and spreads across his face, taking a tooth with it. He falls back to the floor, a huddled mess.

In the process of securing the straps on Crosby's gurney, Gordon sees Nigma fall and turns to Batman.

"Was that necessary?"

Batman cracks his knuckles and replies, "Absolutely."

"So what next?" Gordon asks and places Crosby's jaw in a medical bag and lays it on the Lieutenant's chest.

Batman turns away from Gordon and stares down the hall. "Tell DeFilippis and Krol it's over. They're safe to land now."

"What are you going to do about Dent?"

"I don't know." Batman starts back down the hallway. "I'll think of something."

* * *

**Gotham Police Airship-1.**

**Mayor Krol.**

_So far so good on the charade. The latex mask is working as well as it can. Krol certainly doesn't suspect anything, and I'm inclined to think he wouldn't anyway. I kept details of the 'assault' mum, and rightly so. Last thing we need is some politician claiming he figured out who Batman is._

_Still, he couldn't resist it when I told him to mobilize the QRT. Amazing what the say-so of a billionaire does in this town. Amazing that Bruce has this kind of political power just waiting for him, and he doesn't even seem interested in using it._

"So…Bruce." Krol has difficulty saying it; he's trying too hard to be nice. Not trying hard enough to be frank. It's odd, really, for a man who got elected on a He-Man-Batman-Hater ticket.

"Yes, Mayor?" I turn and give him a corny-as-hell smile. It works well with the corny as hell way I'm interpreting Bruce, too: practically laying in the seat opposite Krol, legs crossed calmly, one arm thrown back behind my head. I probably look like I'm on the verge of taking a nap.

"Going back to the, uh, assault."

"Uh huh." I half-turns and give Krol a distant kind of attention.

"You said Scarecrow…jumped you?"

"Yep. Gave me a few scratches and did a number on the old solar plexus. Nothing too serious, or so my butler tells me."

"Butler?"

"Oh yes," I shurg. "He used to work with British intelligence before coming to work for my father. Good in a tight spot, even better in the kitchen."

Krol nods along and pretends to understand. And turns away. I manage another smaller smile, and wonder if the mask plays along.

* * *

**The Operating Theater.**

He presses a hand to his temple, trying to suppress a headache, as he approaches the theater. He takes the long way from the cell-bay corridor, around the guard station to the doctor's entrance. He takes the long way, and he thinks about what he's done.

All the sturm and batarangs, all the pretended rage and mystery, all the stoicism. He's haunted every night by the fact that its still not enough. Haunted by the fact that he cannot convince himself enough times that nothing he did caused their deaths. And nothing he could ever do could atone for their deaths.

He presses a finger to his ear, opening a channel on the communicator. "Robin, I'm heading your way now. There's something that concerns me about Arkham, and I'd like to know what you know." He taps his ear again, and the channel closes.

He's tired of people feeling sorry for him, tired of the blame he shoulders. Tired of problems. Now, he only wants solutions. And as he approaches the swinging doors that are the Doctor's Entrance, he represses. And repeats. And lies to himself.

_The Harvey Dent you knew is dead. Replaced by Two-Face. Keep that in mind the next time you start to grieve for the loss of old friends._

He presses the side of his cowl, activates the night-vision in the Star-lite lenses, and pushes the swing doors open. And stops in his tracks.

Gordon's team--all of them; Josie, Hardback, Roder, Bullock and Montoya--are bound in bailing twine, in various stages of consciousness. Jonathan Crane, in his typical Halloween costume, paces around them. He holds a Raggedy-Ann doll in one hand, and steals intermittent gazes at Montoya.

And in the center of the theater, in the lone beam of light streaming down from the ceiling, Two-Face has Robin in a headlock, his Beretta pressed motionlessly against the Boy Wonder's head. Two-Face smiles. The scarred half of his face grows more hideous as he does.

"Go ahead, Bats. Tell us what concerns you."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	11. Finale

**The Operating Theater.**

Batman stands eight feet away from Two-Face. Too far away to simply jump ahead and disarm Dent; too close for some flashy acrobatics to try and get Robin away from him. Dent's paying scrupulous attention to the Dark Knight, and vice versa. By rights, it is a stalemate.

In a flash, Batman pulls one from his belt and flicks his wrist. The black sliver flies across the room and strikes Jonathan Crane across the forehead. The Scarecrow falls to the ground in blissful unconsciousness. The Raggedy-Ann doll rolls from his hands and comes to rest at Renee Montoya's foot. She eyes it nervously, afraid of leaking fear toxin, and tries to inch away.

And the Dark Knight has a problem of his own. In every mental scenario he runs Two-Face pulls the trigger, and another Robin dies. And Batman's not in the business of losing allies anymore.

Two-Face smiles, hideous and wicked.

"Did you see this coming, Bats? Did you ever expect you'd be double-crossed by Two-Face?"

Batman gives a terse reply: "It crossed my mind."

"Really?" Two-Face cocks his head.

"Yes," Batman starts pacing. He allows his cape to drape completely over his shoulders—the illusion in the darkness suggests he's simply a floating head. He follows a wide arc around Two-Face. "I had a suspicion when Crane went missing, and suspected you got the Joker off the island, too. But you couldn't have—you were in Maximum Security dealing with Zsasz."

"You really are a detective." Two-Face says it slowly. Dryly.

Batman stops pacing behind Two-Face and maintains the 8-foot radius. "I do what I can."

"So do I, Bats. Why else would I take your little jailbait here?"

"I wouldn't know, Harvey," Batman says, even though he does know better. Rather like the Joker, Dent has a peculiar attraction to endangering Robin over Batman. The Dark Knight knows this, using Dent's predictability to his own advantage. What's left of Harvey Dent scowls at the mention of his name. Batman continues: "It's not the first time you've staked a claim to one of my sidekicks."

"True. And I suppose you want to know what I want with him." Two-Face's eyes narrow. He tightens the headlock and the Boy Wonder chokes, trying to readjust to the shift in pressure.

"Not really," Batman says; his pacing brings him around to face the former DA again. "You'll kill him, just to prove you can. And then I'll throw you back in prison."

He throws one half of his cape back over his shoulders. Half of the yellow oval and elongated bat shows itself. Batman holds one arm akimbo, making certain Two-Face notices the index finger resting over a Batarang quick-release hasp. "But it doesn't have to be like this. You don't **have** to kill him to prove your point. The Quick Response Team is about five minutes out and when they get here, they're going to ask you very nicely to give him back. You don't see the way out of this, do you?"

"What?" Two-Face's reply is dead flat. He didn't see it coming.

"A way out," Batman says. "Confess to everything. Say it was Two-Face—not Harvey Dent—and they'll let you walk."

"And be called a liar, for the trouble?" Two-Face's eyes darken. "I think not."

Batman disregards it and continues. "But it **was** you. You preyed on this town's crooked justice system to slap your wrist and throw you in here instead of Blackgate. You're a smart man, Harvey, I'll give you that much. But not terribly clever. A clever man would've bribed the judge, like a certain mob boss we all know. Or knew—before you put two bullets in his head."

"**Shut up!**" Dent yells. His grip on the Boy Wonder slacks.

"You can't help it," Batman baits and starts pacing again. He forms one hand into a fist. Prepares himself for the coming eventuality. When Dent doesn't answer Batman does it for him: "This is insane, Harvey. You're thirty-eight years old, and you'll spend the rest of your life getting even with a dead gangster. You're a convicted felon, disbarred from practicing law ever again. Holding a sixteen-year old kid at gunpoint."

"**Shut. Up!**" Dent yells again, and fires the gun into the ceiling. The move gives Robin the opening he needs. He elbows Two-Face in the gut, flexes his arm in a backward arch and smashes Two-Face between the eyes with the back his hand. He goes into a low crouch and pivots on the balls of his feet to stare up at the former DA.

And the former DA stands there: motionless but slightly quivering. Stunned and deeply angered.

"Clever," he retorts and aims the gun at Robin.

Before he can take the shot, the Dark Knight intervenes, kicking the gun out of Two-Face's hand. The former DA stumbles backward. Batman grabs him by one lapel and punches him in the stomach.

Two-Face doubles over. Batman lifts his leg again and jams a knee into Dent's chin, and sends the former DA tumbling to the floor.

When Two-Face rights himself and his vision clears, he sees Batman standing over him.

"I don't want to bait you anymore. I want to help." Batman's voice trembles minutely. He glances across the theater to Gordon's bound officers and counts himself lucky that they can't see his eyes. He's dangerously close to compromising everything. "If you think I'm really Bruce Wayne, then we can use my money to rehabilitate you. Give you your life back."

And the theater lights blink to life. Batman and Two-Face glance around the room simultaneously. Two-Face props himself on one elbow and wipes a thin trail of blood from his lower lip. When he speaks, his voice is quiet furor.

"You…you double-crossing son of a bitch. After all these years, you think I'd trust you?"

"There's no one left. You've driven them all away." Batman's voice lightens. "Everyone except me. Whatever's happened, I want to move past it. I want to help you."

The Dark Knight holds extends a hand. Dent eyeballs it curiously.

_It's a trick. He doesn't want to help you._

He bats it aside and scrambles across the floor for his Beretta. He grabs it hastily and stands. Batman doesn't intervene, and even when Two-Face aims the Beretta at him, he stays quiet.

Batman backs away and locks his eyes on the gun.

"You don't understand," Two-Face says. "No one's **ever** understood! You know where you can shove this upright citizen bullshit, Bats. You've hated me for everything I've done! Ever since I did us all a favor and **plugged** Falcone! You'd rather see people like him roaming the streets, wouldn't you?!" Two-Face's voice drops; a hoarse yell descends to a restrained anger. "Instead of your beloved freaks…you'd rather see Harvey Dent getting pushed around, just so you can be the bogeyman you've always wanted."

"You were obsessed, Harvey," Batman says ruefully. "I understand obsession, I understand pain. Sometimes…I share them. With someone like you."

Somewhere behind him, the theater doors swing open on rusty hinges. He hears the footfalls, and the rustling of gloved hands against assault rifles. He half-turns his head and sees a six-man squad of the Quick Response Team led by Commandant Bill Pettit. Two armored officers flank Batman on either side; two more head for Gordon's bound team across the room and free them in minutes.

The entire time, Batman stands motionless. Two-Face, likewise stoic, inhales deeply and lets it go.

Drops the Beretta. His arms dangle motionless at his sides.

Pettit motions to his officers. "Cuffs," he says in a thick tenor.

Two QRT officers clasp Dent's hands in cuffs. Batman holds out one hand and stops them.

"I'll take him."

* * *

**The Guard's Desk.**

Mayor Krol, Jim Gordon, Andy DeFilippis, and Bruce Wayne hover around the camera monitors, buried in a wraparound console.

Wayne has taken it upon himself to complete the Riddler's unfinished Solitaire game. Nigma meanwhile is restrained in the swivel chair, handcuffed around the vertical back support. He stares at Wayne quietly. Every few minutes his lips twitch angrily and Wayne thinks Nigma's cursing him.

Gordon and Krol pace nervously from one end of the hall to the other, in a sort of two-dimensional game of Pong.

Andy DeFilippis leans against one wall. He's the first to see Two-Face seemingly strolling towards him. His eyes go wide and he straightens himself in a paltry attempt to stand on ceremony for Dent.

Edward Nigma rotates the chair; he sees not only Two-Face, but Batman behind him, leading the former DA towards an inexorable arrest, and further back, the Boy Wonder.

His eyes narrow. His head jerks robotically to Wayne—himself, by design, blissfully unaware of anything going on—and then at Batman again.

"It's not…it's not possible," he mutters and stares at Batman with burning, hate-filled eyes.

Gordon raises an eyebrow and looks at Batman. "What's not possible?"

Nigma compares Wayne to Batman again. Shakes his head miserably and slouches. "Nothing."

Gordon does the same.

Harvey Dent's human lips smile thinly.

Bruce Wayne doesn't seem to pay any of them attention. He reshuffles the cards and lays out a new hand.

Gordon scratches his head and pulls Nigma away, motioning with one finger to DeFilippis. "You can explain it to the guards at Blackgate," he says. "Andy, take Mister Nigma and the Mayor out front, and tell Commandant Pettit we'll be out shortly."

DeFilippis complies, nodding, and leads Nigma away. Gordon's strike team—Montoya, Bullock and the rest—follow the junior officer. Gordon looks after them and waits until they're out of earshot to speak to Batman.

Gordon stares at Harvey Dent for a moment.

"Alright, how'd it happen?"

"I did what I wanted, Jimbo."

"Not what you 'had to?'" In the back of his mind, Gordon kicks himself for the derision.

"No," Dent says. "Not in that business anymore. I saved that Lieutenant Crosby of yours. You get him a good plastic surgeon; he might come out of this with only a little self-loathing."

"Enough," Gordon says quietly. "Why? There're no radios here. No cameras. This is off the record, Dent. So tell me why Nigma caused a few million in property damage and cost me one of my best officers?"

Dent's scarred half smiles, a hideous rictus. "You think Nigma did this for some scheme of glory? Playing his usual tricks?"

"It would make sense." Gordon stands his ground.

Dent frowns. "Predictable as ever, Jimbo. Nigma never really understood what he was getting into anyway. 'Course it doesn't matter now that his deal's off. In a few weeks those bridges will be back up and we'll be back in here, and you'll have the same problems you always have, Jimbo."

Gordon scowls, turns swiftly and walks away. His boots echo dully on the floor tiles.

Batman looks after him for a moment, grabs Two-Face by the cuffs, and starts moving, down the hallway to the front doors.

"You were quiet for once," Dent says of the Dark Knight. "No Sam Spademoment?"

"I'm sorry, Harvey," Batman says awkwardly.

Dent lets the admission hang in the air, as if to allow Batman to choke on it. He snickers, after a minute, and says: "I'm not."

* * *

**Three days later.**

**The Batcave, underneath stately Wayne Manor.**

Tim Drake approaches the Batcomputer with equal hesitation. Still hesitant, after all these years. Still hesitant because Bruce hasn't really done much in the past three days except sit at the Batcomputer and brood.

"I, uh, take it your impersonation…thing went well?

"Yes," Bruce says. "I hear Nigma won't shut up about it. The inmates at Blackgate won't tolerate him."

"Good," Tim says evenly and nods his head.

Tim's eyes roll in their sockets. _Oh awkward silences…_

"Alright, I can't take it anymore," he says after five minutes. "You've been mum ever since we got back from the Asylum. What's the deal, Bruce?"

"Several things," Bruce says and turns the chair around to face Tim. "How Arkham found out our identities. The explosives they used to blow the bridges. Where the Joker got off to. And something Harvey said to Gordon."

"Like what?"

"He mentioned Nigma making a deal with someone, a deal that's apparently expired. I want to know what that deal was."

"What if he was lying to you?" Tim asks. "I mean…this wouldn't be the first time he's led you on a wild goose chase. You think he's back to **his** old tricks? Despite what he said about Nigma?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. He turns back to the Batcomputer and opens Dent's file. "He had sessions twice weekly with Nybakken, trying to refuse his psychosis. Two-Face had been overcome, or so we all thought. With your life on the line, the only way to subdue him…was to prey on Harvey Dent's inferiorities."

"You sound disappointed," Tim says, half-amused. "Didn't know I was worth that much."

"I am" Bruce says. He sits back in his chair and supports his chin on one arm, staring at the screen thoughtfully. "Before his accident, we were…friends."

Silence. Tim lays a hand on Bruce's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Bruce disregards it and returns to the computer. He punches the keys and brings up a technical schematic of Arkham, as well as files on Poison Ivy and the Joker.

"There's something else," Bruce says. "I suspect it may tie into this deal Nigma made."

"What?" Tim asks.

"The blasts were too effective to be household chemicals mixed up in a bathtub somewhere. I'm thinking C4."

"Pretty straightforward," Tim says, somewhat astonished. "But where'd they get it?"

"That's what worries me. They couldn't have just cooked it up in some bathtub, and even if this is Gotham City, insane asylums don't have access to high explosives. So where did they get it?" Bruce asks the question and Tim suspects it's a highly rhetorical one.

Tim's eyebrows angle, his forehead furrows. "Could be industrial espionage. Cobblepot was in on this; you think he could've stolen from one of your warehouses while he was on the run?"

"No," Bruce says distantly. "Wayne Enterprises doesn't do heavy-arms manufacture. Period."

"Oh," Tim says, deflated. "So…what? Guess they don't make 'em like they used to."

"No one ever made them this good," Bruce says evenly. "There are maybe three other companies, within reason and convenience, that make me think Nigma went out of his way for this. STAR Labs is likely; their Gotham facility has the weapons contracts, but even Nigma couldn't break in without alerting the police. Same for K.O.R.D. Industries; they have the labs and the know-how, but the CEO knows all the wrong people."

"Who's the third?"

"LexCorp," he says dismally.

* * *

**Metropolis.**

**Centennial Park.**

"And no one's batted an eye about the pseudonym?"

"Let's face it, Mister Clean, people are idiots. I mean, 'Dr. Frederick Chilton?' Nobody even got the joke. It was a crappo gimmick to begin with. Too Riddler."

"I don't care. You have what you need. So get the hell out of my city."

"But we were so close! And I never got a chance to pester the Spam of Tomorrow! Where is he anyway?"

"Busy."

"Fine, I didn't ask for your life story. But I like it here. Sunshine, clean air. Maybe I'll introduce your loving populace to a 'Gotham-style' mugging. Sounds kinda dirty, doesn't it?"

"And what happened to your…what was it—savage journey to the heart of villainy?"

"I'm really just marking time until the spirit moves me, y'know? I wonder where I'll go first…"

Lex Luthor's lips form into a thin scowl. Ten yards away his '37 Phantom III hums idly, attended by a very GI-Jane-looking chauffeur. The Joker peers over Luthor's shoulder and cocks his head, staring longingly at the woman and her tailored peacoat, the ash-grey wool leading across her chest and buttoning at one side, leading down to—

"I want you out of my town by midnight tomorrow. Whatever you need, just get it and get out. I'll wire you a complimentary five grand to hasten your departure. Deal?"

The Joker lowers his head and gives a demure smile.

"Super," he says.

"And the next time we meet," Luthor says through tight lips. "I'll be calling in your debt, clown."

* * *

**_End..._**


End file.
